


cherries are not the only fruit

by GlitterIbbur



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Coming Out, F/F, Fluff, Sweet Kisses, and yolanda is so centered and carefree, arthie is so cute and eager and yolanda makes her feel really special, by jeanette winterson, i just. had a lot of feelings and needed to write about them., it came out in 1985 and is a lesbian coming of age story and it's a good pun okay, it works on like five different levels, now rated m, rated teen and up because i say a fuck word, this story is 80 percent fluff 5 percent angst and 15 percent glow girls shenanigans, title is a nod to oranges are not the only fruit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 19:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15396027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterIbbur/pseuds/GlitterIbbur
Summary: “So you like, really hate your character, huh?”“Wh-what?” Arthie sputters, slamming her notebook closed. She winces—hopefully the pages haven’t creased—and looks up at her roommate.Yolanda closes the door behind her and locks it. Yolanda. Cherry’s replacement, no matter how Sam emphasizes that she’s just Junkchain’s replacement.Yolanda shrugs and sets her purse on the chair by the door, then slips off her shoes and sets them neatly next to Arthie’s. “It’s not exactly subtle. The stuff you said the day we met, when we were shooting the title sequence. You do everything to get out of looking evil.”The evolution of Arthie and Yolanda's relationship.





	1. death to beirut

“So you like, really hate your character, huh?”

“Wh-what?” Arthie sputters, slamming her notebook closed. She winces—hopefully the pages haven’t creased—and looks up at her roommate.

Yolanda closes the door behind her and locks it. Yolanda. Cherry’s replacement, no matter how Sam emphasizes that she’s just _Junkchain’s_ replacement.

Yolanda is a better roommate than Justine. She’s neat and upbeat. Respects Arthie’s space. Arthie tries not to judge—or think about!—Yolanda’s other job. Like, maybe she was forced into it. Maybe she has no other options. Maybe she needs the money to send to her family, or she’s using it to put herself to through school, or—and—and it’s not like Arthie would _know._ Except for Friday night, when she came in smelling like sweat and smoke, and the phone calls asking for Yo-yo, and the endless supply of dollar bills, it’s not like Arthie would _know_ her roommate is a stripper unless Yolanda hadn’t told her. Told all of them, like it was no big deal.

Yolanda shrugs and sets her purse on the chair by the door, then slips off her shoes and sets them neatly next to Arthie’s. “It’s not exactly subtle. The stuff you said the day we met, when we were shooting the title sequence. You do everything to get out of looking evil.”

Arthie draws her knees to her chest. “I just think Beirut could be a more fully-fleshed character, you know? Maybe—maybe if we understood her motivations, _why_ she was so angry—”

“Nobody wants to know that,” Yolanda cuts Arthie off. She sighs and pulls her hair back, twisting it into a high bun at the back of her head. “Middle America just wants someone to hate.”

Arthie rests her forehead on her knees. “I don’t want to be hated.”

“Why? It’s more fun to play a villain.”

Arthie remembers TWA Flight 847 and the relief she felt while she was with her friends watching the prisoners get released. She thinks of the brief, hollow look on Melrose’s face when news from the Middle East reaches them—a car bombing, a cruise ship hijacking, a synagogue shooting—before she plasters on a smile that’s just a little wider than before. She hears the names that not only enraged audience members but _Bash_ and _Ruth_ have used: towelhead, sand rat, terrorist. She recalls how Keith walked her out of that first match, a firm hand on her shoulder, tucked into his sweaty side like a football, because someone threw a beer at her so hard it busted open a cut on Rhonda’s forehead. Everyone hated her _so much_ they booed and spit and threw things at her and they didn’t even _know_ her! She is just an actress—Beirut is just a character. Arthie doesn’t deserve that much vitriol. She loves wrestling, but playing Beirut makes her feel really bad.

“Not—not like this.” Arthie challenges, but her voice is weak. “I’m not playing a villain, I’m playing a _terrorist_.”

“What else could you be?” Yolanda asks. Her eyes flash and her chin hitches like an invitation to a challenge, but Arthie feels inspired, not cornered.

“I could be a bellydancer,” Arthie says, finally giving voice to the ideas that had been fermenting in the back of her mind for a while. “Or-or a genie! My dad loves _I Dream of Jeannie_. Anything is better than Beirut: The Mad Bomber.”

“What, do you want to bring positive Arab stereotypes to television through a _wrestling show_?” Yolanda scoffs. The dresser squeaks as it opens.

“I’m not even Arab,” Arthie mumbles.

“Oh,” Yolanda says. “What are you, then?”

Arthie lifts her head, catches an eyeful of Yolanda’s chest, and lowers it quickly. “I’m _American_.”

“No shit,” Yolanda laughs. “Me too. Where are you… really from?”

Yolanda’s voice has dropped an octave and she’s purring in Arthie’s ear. When Arthie looks at her she quirks a thin brow until Arthie giggles, unfolding herself from the chair by the desk and walking over to the dresser to grab her pajamas.

She could have stayed in her chair—Yolanda’s not a bully, she didn’t ask Arthie to get up—but there’s something about staying in Yolanda’s orbit that’s like holding her hand too close to the stove. Something that bubbles in her chest like a laugh that’s out of place, loud and embarrassing. She’s trying to be _cool_ for Yolanda. Who’s _so_ cool. One of the coolest people on the team, for sure. Once everyone gets over their resentment of Yolanda having replaced Cherry, they’ll realize that. But for now? Yolanda is extra nice to her. Arthie doesn’t want to fuck that up.

“I’m Indian,” Arthie says. She stands in the doorway of the bathroom, holding a nightgown. “I don’t want to be a stereotype, though. I just want to be something fun. Creative and… like… I don’t know. Whimsical.”

Yolanda inclines her head. “Hurry up in there. I gotta take my makeup off.”

Arthie pauses. She almost offers to change in the living room, but then swallows it and commits. She closes the door, locks it, and rests her head against the doorjamb. It smells like pencils.  

Arthie washes her face and changes quickly. She bangs her elbow on the counter on the way out and hisses.

“You alright?” Yolanda asks, rushing up to check her. Her hands are on Arthie’s elbow, cold and hot at the same time. Arthie freezes and then laughs self-consciously.

“Just my funny bone,” she says, pulling away. “Did you know that, um. The funny bone isn’t really a bone?”

“No?” Yolanda settles back onto her bed, propping herself up with her hands and arms rigid behind her. "Seriously?"

“It’s part of the ulnar nerve,” Arthie explains, touching her elbow gingerly. “But it’s unprotected. Your brain doesn’t know how to interpret the signals so it sort of just goes _ahhh_ when you hit it.” Arthie opens her hands and shakes them a little to demonstrate.

Yolanda chuckles. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. What does your brain do?”

Arthie almost repeats herself before she realizes Yolanda is teasing her. Instead, she fights a smile. Yolanda’s open, beaming, self-satisfied smile makes her give in.

“Don’t you have makeup to take off?” Arthie asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Yolanda sighs, sliding off the bed. She moves in a way like no one Arthie has ever seen, each motion intentional, confident. Fluid. Magnetic. Even just walking to the bathroom has purpose and commands energy. “Try not to miss me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Arthie says to the closed bathroom door. She sighs into her hands and then shakes herself out. She can be confident, too. She walks over to the desk and sits back down, opening her notebook. She’s almost done with this one. The first half is filled with medical drawings, sketches of anatomy, individual cells and organ systems so intricately detailed and labelled they could have come from her old textbooks.

Interspersed are wrestling notes, more and more as the notebook progresses until it takes over. She’s listed all the moves she can think of and broken them down, step by step, with drawings no more than two inches tall.

She doesn’t have Carmen’s background knowledge. She doesn’t have Jenny’s costuming talent or Stacy and Dawn’s beautician’s degrees. She doesn’t have Ruth’s acting training or tenacity. She doesn’t have Debbie’s made-for-stardom beauty.

But she’s going to be _useful._ One day, a how-to guide for women wrestlers will be useful. She spent the rest of the summer watching wrestling shows with her Nani and copying moves from books she got at the library. The figures in wrestling books were all bulky men and the moves weren’t quite right, so Arthie picked up some dance books too, and combined everything to make a complete list of every wrestling move she knew. She tailored it to women’s bodies and strengths, with common mistakes and dangers noted in the margins.  

She’d always been a good student.

Yolanda walks out of the bathroom. Her hair is down and her face is scrubbed clean. She grabs an elastic band from her dresser and sits on the floor beside Arthie, sliding a foot into the elastic so she can point and flex it against the resistance.

“It sucks about your character,” she says casually. “But you’re smart. You’re gonna think of a way to kill Beirut that Sam and them can’t say no to.”

“Oh,” Arthie gasps, slamming her hand flat on the desk. “Oh!”

Yolanda winks up at her.


	2. small comforts

“Don’t tell her anything!” Sheila says, covering Rhonda’s mouth with her hands.

Arthie smiles, dabbing more red paint onto the shoelace she’s staining. Whatever Sheila and Rhonda are doing, they’re _really_ into it.

“Sheila, you’re up next,” Carmen says, coming into the workout corner with Melrose, who scampers over to Dawn and Stacey with a wide grin. She whispers something to them and they start giggling. Arthie ignores them. She’s got a costume to make, a Phoenix to create so that she can rise from the ashes of Beirut in time for her rapidly approaching audition.

_Finally._

It excites her that Jenny, Dawn and Stacey are on board with Phoenix. More than on board. They’re as into the idea as she is, from the sound of it.

She’s even found clippings from the 1970 live version of _The Firebird_ to use as inspiration.

Pheonix is going to be everything she could hope for in a wrestling persona. Sexy, creative, quick, graceful and strong. Someone that everyone can identify with and that people _like._

Arthie is incredibly excited for her debut.

She's so focused that she doesn’t notice Rhonda slide down next to her, chewing on a straw.

“She’s a lesbian, you know,” she says. Her tone is casual, conversational, with just the slightest edge to it. “Just thought I should warn you.”

“What?” Arthie asks. Her hand falters; paint drips onto the floor.

“Oooh, gossip,” Melrose says, sliding into place on Arthie’s other side. She motions for Rhonda. “Gimme, gimme.”

“It’s nothing,” Rhonda laughs a little and shrugs. Arthie watches her carefully. “I was just telling Arthie that her roommate is a lesbian."

“No way,” Jenny gasps, sliding off of the bench so she could join the gossip circle Arthie wants desperately to be excluded from. “No way, no _way_!”

“You’re making that up,” Melrose challenges. Arthie nods in agreement.

“She told me,” Rhonda brags, looking around as if Yolanda was going to materialize at any moment.

“Oh my god,” Jenny squeals, fixing her gaze on Arthie. “Arthie, has she like, _come on_ to you?”

“Wh-what?” Arthie stutters. She puts her paintbrush down and presses her hands against her lap. “No, of course not.”

Yolanda is nice. She’s not creepy or forward or—or—

“You’d better watch out,” Rhonda warns, raising her eyebrows. “Or she’ll turn you.”

Arthie’s stomach sinks. “That can’t happen, can it?”

“She’s cute,” Melrose shrugs. “I’m just saying. There are worse people to go lez for.”

Arthie shudders. The idea of, of _touching_ Yolanda, of Yolanda _kissing_ her, makes her queasy.

“Who are we going lez for?” Dawn asks from her spot on the mat.

“The new girl,” Jenny calls back.

“Her?” Stacey laughs. “No way.”

“She told me so!” Rhonda says, a little _uh_ on the end of _so_ for emphasis. “I was just making conversation, asking if she was seeing anyone, and she mentioned that she likes _girls_.”

“Some of our old clients like women,” Dawn says.

“Yeah,” Stacey agrees. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I still wouldn’t want to room with her,” Jenny says, eyeing Melrose.

Melrose wrinkles her nose. “As if. You’re not my type, honey.”

“Hey!”

Arthie worries her bottom lip. Her stomach hurts. Suddenly every touch, every glance was suspect. Was—was Yolanda _attracted_ to her?

Has she even met other lesbians before?

Was she supposed to ask Yolanda about it?

Was it rude to tell her that she already knew?

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Rhonda says, just to Arthie, her voice almost genuine.

“I, um, it’s okay,” Arthie recovers, picking up her paintbrush again. “It’s no big deal.”

Rhonda shrugs. “If you say so. My floor is always open if you need it.”

Arthie waves her off. The pit in her stomach doesn’t go away all day, and her practice with Carmen is lackluster and distracted. As much as she tries to tell herself that Rhonda is just trying to shake her up before the audition, the jolts Arthie feels whenever she thinks about how Yolanda looks at her tells her she isn’t wrong.

Her match with Carmen isn’t about quality wrestling, anyway—it’s about the story. Hopefully the wow factor of Phoenix’s transformation will be enough to woo Sam, Bash and Debbie. Carmen is supportive and that helps, too.

She’s got a lot riding on this.

* * *

“Hey!” Arthie seethes as Dawn and Stacey come buzzing backstage, high from their artistically badass but totally plagiaristic audition. “The transformation gimmick? That was my idea.”

Dawn and Stacey offer some weak excuse and Arthie stands, incredulous, while Rhonda and Sheila wrestle.

And then it’s her and Carmen’s turn. They eat it. It’s bad. Sam, Bash and Debbie watch, impassive, unenthused, as Arthie pleads with them to let her do anything but Beirut. They decline, and Carmen’s hand on her shoulder as they exit the ring is of little comfort.

Everyone in the locker room is too bright, too happy and too loud for Arthie right now. She keeps her head down as she changes, strips her leotard off and takes her street clothes out of her locker. She fights tears as she changes, fights snapping at everyone to just _be quiet_.

“Hey!” Yolanda’s voice is bubbly. She’s standing so close their hips are practically touching, thrumming with leftover energy from a successful performance. “Did you _see_ Zoya ‘n me? We were on _fire_ ! We’ve got the _moves_! Wait—what’s wrong?”

Yolanda’s hands are clammy against Arthie’s overheated skin and for a second it’s like they’re alone in the room.

And then Arthie remembers what Rhonda told her. That’s why everyone suddenly hushes. They’re watching, judging.

“Don’t touch me!” Arthie snaps, twisting out of Yolanda’s grasp.

“What’s her problem?” Arthie hears as she runs out of the dressing room clutching her purse.

Arthie keeps her head down while she waits for everyone to leave, hoping she’ll turn invisible.

They file out all at once, whooping, ready to get food, to go party. Arthie doesn’t move until she hears Melrose’s limo peel out of the parking lot.

Arthie kicks the asphalt. There goes her ride. But she doesn’t want to party tonight.

She half hopes Yolanda stays out all night so she can be alone in their room, and the other half hopes she comes home so Arthie can apologize. So she doesn’t _have_ to be alone.

A sedan pulls up a few minutes later, its wheels crunching as it comes to a stop in front of her.

“Arthie?” Tammé calls from the open window. “Is that you sitting there?”

“Hey.” Arthie unfolds and stands. She waves a little, forces a grin.

“Why aren’t you with the other girls?”

Arthie shrugs.

“Do you need a ride?”

Arthie nods. “Yes, please.”

“I’m here to pick up Debbie,” Tammé explains. “But I know she won’t mind.”

Arthie isn’t sure if she agrees, but she doesn’t argue as she slides into Tammé’s backseat. “Thanks,” she says, her voice scratchy.

“No problem,” Tammé shrugs. She digs in her purse for a moment and then passes her back a candy bar. “From my stash. You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

Arthie laughs wetly. “Thanks, Tammé.”

“Don’t mention it,” Tammé waves her off. “We’re a team. Now where is our super producer?”

Debbie comes out of the gym a few minutes later, her face as stony. She frowns when she climbs into the car and sees Arthie in the backseat.

“Our friend needs a lift,” Tammé explains before Debbie can complain.

“Fine,” Debbie sighs, puffing up her hair a little and checking her makeup in Tammé’s sunshade mirror. “Drop her off and we can go to dinner.”  

“How’d it go today?”

Debbie’s eyes dart to the backseat and her jaw tightens. “I’ll tell you over drinks.”

Arthie carefully bites the corner of her candy bar.

* * *

Arthie showers when she gets home, grateful that there’s a near-unlimited amount of hot water this time in the afternoon. The phone rings a few times but she ignores it. She’s in her pajamas by 5, and watches _The Golden Girls_ until she doesn’t feel much of anything.

She wants to call her parents, like she would when she got a bad grade in school, but this is different. And they aren’t really speaking.

She wonders if she can explain what happened in Hindi. If her nani would even understand.

The other girls get home around curfew, giggling and shushing each other as they file into their hotel rooms. Occasionally someone will laugh loudly, which prompts another round of giggling and shushing.

Is she this annoying when she’s with everyone?

She’s angry. She knows she’s angry. Furious really. Hurt and furious. How _dare_ Dawn and Stacey take her idea! What, being old ladies wore on _their_ self esteem?

How _dare_ they.

Half an hour past curfew is when Arthie begins to worry, tapping her fingertips against her bottom lip as she watches the door. She’d assumed Yolanda went out with the other girls, but shouldn’t she be back now?

Maybe she's avoiding her?

Arthie calls Ruth, who tells her Yolanda left shortly after Arthie did and to call her if she doesn’t come home in another half hour.

Arthie is debating calling Carmen when there’s a quiet knock at the door.

“Yo, Arthie, open up!”

It’s Yolanda.

Arthie releases tension she didn’t know she was holding as she scampers to the front door.

“Hurry, it’s heavy!” Yolanda pleads. She’s bracing herself against the doorpost with Gregory’s prized Samsung microwave in her arms.

“What?” Arthie asks.

Yolanda quirks an eyebrow and lugs the microwave into their room, laughing and cursing when she nearly drops it. She sets it on her bed and motions for Arthie to clear the desk. Arthie does, slowly.

“There’s a surprise for you in my car,” Yolanda beams, puffing out her chest in pride. “Go check, I’ll get this set up. It’s on the front seat.”

Arthie slips on her shoes and pads out to Yolanda’s car, her head tilted in curiosity. She tries to look through a window but it’s dark.

It’s only when she opens the door and the smell hits her that she realizes what Yolanda has done.

There are takeout bags on the front seat. Indian food.

Arthie freezes, clutching the door, her eyes watering.

It’s overwhelming.

“Pretty slick, huh?” Yolanda says, coming up from behind. She rests her hand on the small of Arthie’s back. Puts it there like it belongs.

Confident, secure and certain as the rest of her. Her hand, even through the thin material of Arthie’s pajama top, is warm in the cool, dry air of the Sun Valley at night. She’s not putting pressure on Arthie; it’s like she’s just… resting her hand there. Grounding her.

“What is this?” Arthie whispers.

Yolanda shrugs. “Carmen told me what happened with those Biddie Bitches. Figured some food from home might help.”

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Arthie flexes her hands by her sides.

“Thank you works,” Yolanda laughs. She shrugs and scratches Arthie lightly. Her back burns.

“I—how did you know what to get?” Arthie asks. A small, hysterical laugh bubbles up. Because this is too much, this sort of grand gesture, and Yolanda’s hand is still on her back—

“I told my new friend Naresh that my girl had a bad day and was homesick, and that he needed to make sure she was less so,” Yolanda explains.

And although Yolanda’s hand doesn’t move, doesn’t press any lighter than a gentle touch, it’s suddenly _intimate._

“I’m not your girl!” Arthie hisses.

Yolanda ignores her, but she pulls her hand away in a fluid motion that has her picking up one of the packages. “Grab the other bag? I’m pretty sure something in this one is starting to leak, and I don’t want anything to stain my seats.”

And then Arthie is alone in the parking lot, holding a takeout bag that smells almost like home.

Arthie is surprised as she unpacks the little containers, lifting up their lids and dabbing her finger against the sauces. They taste… good. Robust.

Her stomach grumbles. She hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

“We only have one bowl,” Yolanda says, coming in from the bathroom where she’d rinsed it out. “Didn’t realize everything was gonna come in foil.”

“Where did you get all this?” Arthie asks in a small voice. “There—there aren’t good Indian places around here.”

“I drove a bit,” Yolanda shrugs, nonchalant.

The only thing that isn’t good is the naan, which is a cold, soft sponge. It was rubbery because it was put hot into foil, and had cooked in its own condensation. Which meant it was in Yolanda’s car for more than a bit. The rest of the food is ice cold, too.

Arthie is about to say something when Yolanda interrupts, looking critically at the containers in front of them. “Where’s the vindaloo? I wanna try that.”

Arthie points and Yolanda pours half the container into her bowl. She debates for a moment and then scoops some rice on top.

“There.” Yolanda sets the bowl in the microwave and turns to look at the table in front of them.

“I… bought a lot of food,” she laughs. “My mom would be proud.”

Arthie chews on her lip. “Is she?"

“What?” Yolanda jerks her head and furrows her brow.

“Is she proud of you?”

“Sure,” Yolanda shrugs, unfazed. She points to a container. “What’s this?”

“Lentils,” Arthie says. Yolanda nods, impressed.

The microwave beeps and Yolanda takes the bowl out, hissing when it burns her.

“ _F_ _uck_ yes,” she moans. “ _F_ _uck_ yes this smells so good.” She dances in place and grins until Arthie, despite herself, smiles.

Yolanda slides down on the floor in front of Arthie’s bed. She settles the bowl in her lap and pats the space next to her.

Arthie resists for a moment and then clambers next to her, feeling like a marionette next to Yolanda’s fluid movements.

Yolanda offers the spoon to Arthie first. She tears up a little and ducks to hide it from her roommate. She’s just… emotional. Today was rough.

Yolanda starts choking when she takes her first bite.

“Oh man,” she says, motioning for Arthie to bring her something to drink. Arthie scoots over to the table and grabs the styrofoam cup. She crawls back and gives it to Yolanda.

“I was not prepared,” Yolanda admits once she’s had a good drink, closing her eyes and hanging her head in mock shame.

“Maybe that bite was really spicy?” Arthie suggests. Yolanda laughs.

“You’re sweet.”

Arthie tries not to hear Rhonda’s voice telling her that her roommate is a _lesbian_.

“This is mango!” Yolanda says suddenly, grinning into the cup. Arthie nods.

“What else?”

“Yogurt?”

Yolanda squints. “No, something else. What’s the spice?”

“I think it’s cardamom, or maybe cumin,” Arthie says. “I’m not a good cook. My mom is pretty disappointed.”

Yolanda’s eyes sparkle.

“It’s your turn,” she says finally, offering Arthie the bowl.

“You need to try again,” Arthie says, which makes Yolanda laugh.

“You just want to see me choke.”

Arthie’s laugh bubbles out loud and embarrassing.

Yolanda is able to handle her second bite, and her third, and her fourth. She and Arthie eat by passing the bowl between them, switching out the vindaloo for chicken tikka masala and then yellow daal.

“So what are your revenge plans?” Yolanda asks, eyeing Arthie over her bowl.

Arthie sputters. “Wh-what?”

“You know, for the Biddies? They straight-up stole your idea, and now you’ve gotta be the Mad Bomber again.”

Arthie frowns down at her feet. Yolanda had distracted her, but now she had to address it. “No, no revenge plans.”

“Aww, come on,” Yolanda pouts. “I’ll help you out with whatever you need. Jump them after a match or something.”

“Oh, god, no!” Arthie’s eyes widen.

Yolanda shrugs. She licks the spoon clean and Arthie tries not to watch her pink tongue dart from between her red-lined lips.

“You’ll think of something smart,” she says. “You got anything in mind yet?”

Arthie twists her hands together and then accepts the bowl from Yolanda. She sticks her spoon into it and swirls it around.

“I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “The same as I’ve been doing, I guess. Complain a lot, but get _really_ good at wrestling. Bide my time, then do the suicide vest idea again. I _like_ Phoenix.”

“Sounds good,” Yolanda nods in approval.

“Thanks for… you know. All of this,” Arthie says. Her voice gives out at the end. Yolanda flips her hand and shrugs. Arthie takes a spoonful and passes the bowl back to her.

“Is this how you eat at home?” Yolanda asks in awe after she eats the last of the daal. “It’s _incredible_.”

Arthie shakes her head. “It’s similar?” She adds, her voice ticking up at the end.

“It’s better than sex,” Yolanda says seriously, which makes Arthie choke.

“What?” Yolanda asks with a raspy laugh. “Haven’t you heard that before?”

She scoots closer so their legs are touching, so she can press her fingers gently against Arthie’s wrist.

“Do you agree?” She asks, ducking her head slightly so she can look up Arthie. Her eyes flicker back and forth like a candle flame, dark in the low light from their single lamp.

“I,” Arthie’s mouth is dry. She swallows. “I don’t know.”

Yolanda’s face softens for the briefest of moments. She pulls back and Arthie tries not to be obvious about the breath she takes.

“You’ll figure it out,” Yolanda says, touching Arthie’s cheek gently. It’s so brief Arthie is worried she made it up except that it tingles for long after the touch, continuing as they clean up together.

“I’m not like you,” Arthie finally tells her once they’ve rinsed out the containers and their bowl.

Yolanda ignores her. “I’m going to bring the microwave back before Greg the Grump wakes up and realizes,” she says.

She’s gone all of fifteen minutes, and when she comes back in Arthie blurts out:

“I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

Yolanda doesn’t even look at her. “Don’t worry. Everyone has shit days.”

Arthie twists her mouth and looks down at her feet.

“We’re cool,” Yolanda says. “Seriously. I’m gonna take a shower now.”

For some reason, her words don’t make Arthie feel better.

When she comes out in a whirl of steam, wrapped in a towel, that Arthie tries again.

“Thank you,” she says. “This is most meaningful thing anyone has done for me in a long time.”

Yolanda winks and Arthie has to wait for her to turn her back to hide her face in her pillow.

There is _so_ much she doesn’t want to think about right now. 


	3. pool party

Arthie is not _innocent_. She knows what sex involves. She can name body parts and sex acts and list the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases.

That’s why she doesn’t like to think about it.

She doesn’t even like watching movies with too much kissing.

It doesn’t make her weird.

Her friends are just horny.

The conversation in the parking lot was really uncomfortable. She doesn’t want to “get fuuuucked!” as everyone had shouted when Melrose prompted them. Sex is… private. Personal. Or at least it should be.

There’s nothing wrong with being a prude. With being _uncomfortable._  

It just so happens that all her friends are… open about their sexualities. A mean voice says that they're sluts, but that same voice whispers that something is wrong with her as each birthday gets closer to thirty than twenty.

And so she was left, a step behind everybody else, mortified and excluded. It’s like the tampon thing, only _worse,_ because this time she’s not being smart or safe.

She’s just awkward.

She doesn't know if teens are having enough sex to warrant an anti-teenage pregnancy PSA, despite what Justine says. It's not what she remembers high school being like at all. The PSA is really fun to shoot, though. Carmen is the perfect baby, with her sweet cheeks and infectious laugh. Justine even cracks a few smiles as Debbie and Ruth walk her through the paces.

“You ready to go?” Yolanda asks later that night, her voice soft. She’s fresh in all white with a thick gold belt, her curls defined and her lipstick smudged from the tequila shots they’d taken together. She comes to stand next to Arthie in the bathroom, leaning over the counter to run her nail against the corner of her lip. “The cast party’s gonna be rad. We did good work today.”

Arthie laughs, stepping back and twisting her arms behind her. “We barely did anything.”

Yolanda flips her hand and shrugs. “That doesn’t matter. We still worked hard.”

Arthie picks at the waistband of her teal skirt.

“You look good,” Yolanda assures her, laying a gentle hand on her arm and staring until Arthie looks into her eyes. Her gaze leaves Arthie breathless and a little dizzy, like she’s pressed her nose against the TV and tried to look inside. “Those sleazy camera guys won’t know what hit them.”

Arthie contorts her face hoping it will make Yolanda laugh. It does. _Success_.

“Ready to dance?” Yolanda asks, quirking her eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Arthie chirps, bouncing a little on her toes.

“Let’s go!” Yolanda chuckles, grabbing Arthie’s wrist and leading her outside. Carmen and Sheila are already there, bobbing awkwardly to the music coming out of a boom box placed precariously on a poolside table.

“Hey!” Carmen smiles warmly when she sees them.

“Hey!” Arthie yells back over the music. Yolanda doesn’t let go of her wrist until she begins to dance, little shimmies that Arthie matches step for step.

Yolanda’s laughter as they move together is buoyant and raspy. Arthie grins and puts more emphasis into her movements, which makes Yolanda laugh harder and just for her. Something inside Arthie twists and it’s suddenly difficult to catch her breath.

Jenny struts by, victorious in Melrose’s jacket. Yolanda turns to dance with her before she catches sight of Sheila and twists her way. Her movements are bigger now, wider. She’s clearly the best dancer here, sliding from moonwalks to twirls to pops so clean and sharp it’s like she’s cutting the air.

Arthie bounces, light on her feet. _No angles,_ she thinks. _All curves_. Every movement needs to connect to another, fluid. Intentional. Confident.

She lost in dancing and rhythm that she feels all the way through her toes.

“Go, go, go, go, go, go, go!” Sheila yells, flailing. Yolanda pulls Arthie into the middle of the group, her smile is so bright it lights up the circle. Arthie can’t help but reflect it back.

They dance, sometimes together, sometimes not, until Arthie’s back is soaked with sweat and her whole body buzzes. They stop sometimes, to drink cheap beer and watch their teammates as they disappear with different boys, before another song comes on that has Arthie’s pulse thrumming through her ears. They dance until it's just them and the owner of the boombox. He leaves, finally, apologizing profusely as he hitches the box onto his shoulder.

And then they’re alone in sudden, humid silence.

Yolanda rests her hands on her knees and wheezes.

“Oh man,” she says. “That was _fucking awesome_.”

“Yeah,” Arthie agrees. She fluffs her hair in a way she hopes looks cool.

“You’ve got _moves_ , girl,” Yolanda grins. “Can’t believe we closed this place up.”

“I don’t want to stop,” Arthie admits breathlessly. Her pulse is still wild, adrenaline making it difficult to breathe.

Yolanda stretches and yawns. “Me neither. Wanna stay outside for a bit? I could use a smoke.”

Arthie nods as Yolanda rummages in her purse for her cigarettes and lighter. She’s too energized to sit quite yet, too listless to know what to do with her hands, arms. She looks at the evidence of their party: the trash, the cigarette butts and the beer cans littering the ground.

Yolanda lights up and settles on a pool chair, lazily taking drags from her cigarette and watching as Arthie stands in front of her like a lost puppy. Is she shaking or does she just feel like she is? 

“C’mon,” Yolanda chuckles, patting the space by her leg. She scoots over so that Arthie will have room. “I don’t bite.”

Arthie rolls her eyes and sits upright so that she can draw her knees up and rest her chin on them. She twists her fingers in the plastic slats of the pool chair.

“I had fun tonight,” Yolanda says, punching Arthie’s arm lightly. Arthie forces herself to relax.

“Yeah, me too.”

It’s late and quiet and still, stifling for how much energy Arthie still has. She tries not to stare at Yolanda, at the way the pool stains her white clothes turquoise and her skin green in waves. She looks like a mermaid. Ethereal.

Arthie’s head aches, a pressure building right between her eyes, from alcohol and dehydration and the smell of chlorine and smoke and sweat.

They sit together, Yolanda occasionally tapping the ash off her cigarette and Arthie watching the pool and the ground but mostly Yolanda, until she finally asks:

“Are you disappointed?”

“What?” Yolanda’s hand pauses halfway to her mouth.

“You know, that you didn’t meet anyone?” Arthie turns to face her.

Yolanda’s laugh is of genuine surprise. “Is that what you’re thinking about so loud right now? What, are you worried about me?”

“No! I just, um, know that’s what the party was for. To… _meet_ people.” The slat makes a  _whap_  noise against her fingers. 

Yolanda laughs again and gets up so she and Arthie are sitting side-by-side, their shoulders brushing.

“I came to have fun, Arthie,” she says, placing a warm, electric hand on Arthie’s arm. “And I did. Did you?”

“Yeah!” Arthie is quick to assure her. “Tons of fun.”

“Good,” Yolanda smiles at her, one of the bright ones that sends a pang to Arthie’s heart, and crushes the butt of her cigarette under her shoe. She fumbles with the pack and then lights another one.

Arthie stares at the orange ember on the concrete. Watches it smolder, the tendril of gray-green smoke reach upwards. Yolanda returns to her original position pressed against Arthie’s back. She’s warm and solid. Safe.

“What’s it like?” Arthie whispers.

“Hmm?” Yolanda pinches a piece of ash off of her tongue.

“What it like? You know? With girls?” Arthie’s cheeks burn.

Yolanda tilts her head. “What’s it like with boys? It’s sex, Arthie. Not rocket science.”

Arthie doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have anything to say.

"No, seriously," Yolanda giggles, nudging Arthie with her hip. "What's it like sleeping with dudes?"

"I don't..." Arthie mumbles. "I don't... I haven't." 

Yolanda's eyes widen for a flash before she recovers. "Hey, hey, that's okay," she soothes.

Arthie avoids Yolanda's gaze. Maybe there will be a freak earthquake and the ground will swallow her?  

“Girls are  _beautiful_ ,” Yolanda says finally, her voice velvet. “Have you ever, like,  _looked_ at girls? How pretty they are? How  _hot_? They feel even better. Fucking is like… you elevate to a higher plane of existence. Everything is raw. It's carnal and nothing matters but the two of you. And that moment? When she comes under you, under your fingers, your mouth… knowing that you are the cause of that release is just—it’s art. You created a universe.”

“Oh,” Arthie says. Her stomach flips. Her head pounds. “That’s… um. It sounds really intense.”

Yolanda snorts. She shifts so she can put out her cigarette. She’s almost spooning Arthie now, her hips practically brushing against her. “It is. I do intense sometimes. What's the point of life if you don't get to experience it in full? Be bold. Have adventures. _Multiple_ orgasms.”

Arthie presses her cheek into her knees. Yolanda settles onto her back again.

“How did you know?” Arthie whispers, lifting her head and staring at a crack on the wall of The Dusty Spur. It looks sinister, like a witch’s hand. “That you were… gay?”

Yolanda’s laugh is as bitter as the smoke in the air. “A Fairy Godmother came and booped me with her magic wand and now I like puss, Arthie. How do you think it happens?”

Arthie shudders and rubs her arms. Why does Yolanda have to say it like  _that_? “But how did you  _know_?”

Arthie's fingers get stuck in the pool slats. She struggles to free them, fretting while she waits for Yolanda’s reply.

“I fell in love with my best friend,” Yolanda says simply. Her eyes burn at the back of Arthie’s neck. “And then everything made sense. That’s how I knew.”

Arthie sighs.

“Have you ever been in love, Arthie?” Yolanda asks. She presses her fingers against Arthie’s elbow, urging her to move, to turn so that Yolanda can see her face while she talks. Arthie acquiesces.

“No,” she whispers.

“No?” Yolanda asks. There’s a hint of something in her voice—amusement?—that makes Arthie cringe.

“Then you’re in for a treat, honey.” Yolanda's smile is a sweet one. Genuine. Like she finds Arthie’s inexperience endearing instead of embarrassing. “Whoever you fall in love with is a lucky one.”

Arthie shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

Yolanda’s eyes probe gently like they did the night with the Indian food, as if she's searching for something just out of reach. Is Arthie hopeful or afraid she'll find what she's looking for? “You knew a lot of the songs playing tonight, didn’t you?”

“Yeah...” Arthie half-smiles. She relaxes. They're standing in the shallow end now. “I like music.”

“You’ve got good taste,” Yolanda says, nudging Arthie gently with her knee. “I wouldn’t mind hearing more.”

Arthie bites her lip. “I’d really like that,” she says.

She only means to close her eyes for a moment, just one long blink, but the next thing she knows her arm tickles. She squirms and brushes her fingers against Yolanda's hand, who stops lightly scratching her to intertwine their fingers. Arthie is dozing against Yolanda's hip, her shins resting against her chest. 

“Hey, Arthie, my ass is numb,” Yolanda murmurs. “And it’s getting cold.”

The world tilts on its axis when Arthie stands. The party, the dancing, Yolanda's words—it's a lot all at once and she's exhausted. She doesn't register the gentle hand at her side until it's gone because it feels like it belongs there. 

"'Night Yolanda," Arthie says once they've gotten ready for sleep. Yolanda's left water bottles and some Advil on the nightstand between their beds. At Arthie's insistence she placed two granola bars there as well. 

Yolanda chuckles. "We're friends, Arthie."

Arthie hums. 

"And my friends call me Yo-yo," Yolanda reminds her. She tugs on a piece of Arthie's hair. 

"'Night Yo-yo," Arthie echos, feeling silly but special. Her whole body burns. 

"'Night Arthie." 

Yolanda's chuckle is musical. 


	4. hitting the ring

“Mail’s here!” Dawn cries, a clear tote tucked under her arm. She smiles as she hands Arthie a modest stack of letters. “Look at who’s Ms. Popular.”

Arthie ducks her head and grins. “We’re all popular now,” she deflects, playing with the crisp edge of an envelope.

It’s true. They are. Gone are the days of paying people to fill their chairs; they perform for packed audiences now, with an overflow crowd wrapped around building hoping for a chance to get inside. Fans greet them eagerly at the stage door and stacks of fan mail arrive daily.

Arthie might not be Liberty Belle or Zoya the Destroya when it comes to popularity, but that’s fine. She’s thrilled to receive letters like the one written in crayon from Amir, age 7, which tells her he likes how she looks like a “glitter raccoon”. Arthie still hates Beirut, but there are _moments_ —small moments—where her camp and posturing are enjoyable. Where getting to shout and cackle for the audience is invigorating instead of humiliating.

So when Ruth suggests they set up an autograph table, Arthie is optimistic. She’s even happier when, after she sets up, Yolanda slides into the space next to her with a stack of glossy headshots in her hand.

“Hey,” Yolanda grins, quirking her eyebrow.

“Hey,” Arthie smiles back, bouncing a little on the stiff plastic folding chair. She waves at a little girl who’s staring at her from a few feet away. The girl jumps and buries her face in her dad’s legs. He looks down and then up, confused, before locking eyes with Arthie. She smiles brightly and waves at him. He smiles back, leading his daughter over by the hand.

“Hello,” Arthie says to the girl in a voice deeper and raspier than her own, the fake accent clunky in her mouth. “My name is Beirut. What is yours?”  

The little girl looks at her with wide green eyes. “V-Vanessa.”

“That is a beautiful name, Vanessa,” Arthie continues. “Did you like the fight tonight?”

Vanessa nods, her ponytail bobbing.

“What was your favorite part?” Arthie asks, leaning over the table.

“Um, um, um,” Vanessa stutters. “I like the part where, um—”

“Liberty Belle is her favorite,” the father cuts in, apologetic.

“She is cool, isn’t she?” Arthie asks Vanessa, undeterred. She slides around the side of the table to kneel in front of the little girl directly. “She is very nice. And strong too, because she works hard. You know… I hear that you’re strong too, Vanessa.”

Vanessa smiles shyly.

Arthie flexes her arm to make her bicep pop. “Can you do this?”

Vanessa copies her. Arthie growls and Vanessa giggles before copying that as well.

“Do you want a picture with Beirut?” Yolanda asks Vanessa in a sweet voice. She turns looks up at Vanessa’s father and says, “It’s $20. An autograph is $10.”

Vanessa looks at her father with eyes so wide and excited she’s practically in tears. With a sigh, the father pulls out his wallet and hands Yolanda a $20 bill. She thanks him, puts the money in the lock box on the table, and picks up a Polaroid camera.

“Say cheese,” she instructs Arthie and Vanessa, squinting through the viewfinder.

“Make a mean face,” Arthie tells Vanessa, who flexes her arm and growls. With a laugh Arthie copies her. With a click, the photo is taken and handed over to Vanessa’s father.

“Thank you,” Vanessa says, turning to throw her arms around Arthie’s neck. Arthie startles. Vanessa’s breath is sickly-sweet. “You’re my new favorite.”

“Come along, Vanessa,” her father calls. Vanessa lets go and scampers off.

“Stay in school?” Arthie calls after her, unsure. She gets up and shakes out her arms.

“You did good,” Yolanda encourages, rubbing Arthie’s shoulder. “Great job staying in character there.”

Her tone is light, lilting.

Arthie huffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re too nice to be mean,” Yolanda chuckles, checking Arthie lightly with her hip.

A young man asks for Junkchain’s autograph before Arthie can think of a retort.

* * *

“What’s got you down?” Yolanda asks casually, emerging from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. If Arthie hadn’t been so upset, she would tease her about looking like Rosie the Riveter with her hair tied up.

“What’s got me down?” Arthie scoffs. “Um, the fact Bash just yelled at us? The fact our show got moved to _2 a.m._?”

Yolanda drops her towel to change and Arthie cradles her head in her hands.

“Bash is just posturing,” Yolanda says. “He’s upset and he needs to feel in control, so he’s trying to make us feel small. Don’t let him win.”

Arthie groans.

“And the timeslot sucks,” Yolanda agrees. Her voice gets smaller as she walks to the bathroom. Arthie rubs her itching eyes. “But what’s our job right now?”

“Um,” Arthie swallows. “Train?”

“Exactly,” Yolanda calls over her shoulder. She hangs her towel up and continues, “We train hard, have some _kickass_ shows, and get our old timeslot back. That’s all you have to worry about right now. Let Bash and Sam and Debbie worry about the rest.”

“But—” Arthie swallows thickly. “But what about your match? Aren’t you nervous?”

Yolanda pauses, her hands caught in her curls as she runs gel through them. “What, with ‘Black Junkchain’? I can take her. I’ve been fighting all season and she’s just come back.”

“She’s, like, really good, Yo-yo,” Arthie warns her. She twists her hands together and bounces them on top of her knees. “She’s a professional stuntwoman. She and Carmen create the blocking. They’re probably in her room right now, preparing.”

“So if she wins our match and is the OG Junkchain, Sam will come up with another character for me.”

Satisfied, Yolanda plugs in her hair dryer. She bends over so she can dry her head upside-down, picking at individual curls until they’re damp instead of wet. Then she dries her bangs with a large curling brush and sets it with hairspray. She winks at Arthie through the mirror before starting on her makeup.

Arthie takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly through her nose. “But—but Yolanda, what if, without a character, they fire you instead?”

“Well, that would be a mega asshole move on their part,” Yolanda says, elongating the wings of her eyeliner.

Arthie draws her eyebrows together.

“Especially since Sam is the one who hired me in the first place,” Yolanda continues. “But I do have another job, Arthie. It’s okay. You’re sweet. Stop worrying. Go shower now.”

“But—” _But what if they fire you and I never see you again?_

“Go,” Yolanda says, soft but firm. “I’m gonna to go see what Tammé is doing. I’ll catch you later, okay?”

* * *

“Ugh!” Yolanda groans as she slams into the mat. Arthie winces as the impact reverberates throughout the gym.

“Again!” Cherry yells, bouncing on her toes. “C’mon, get up.”

Yolanda groans again and rolls over.

“Let’s take a breather?” Carmen suggests, leaning over the top rope.

“If she wants to do this for real, she can learn to fall right,” Cherry shrugs, unimpressed.

Yolanda groans and staggers to her feet.

“It’s her first time getting slammed from up high,” Carmen offers. “It takes everyone a while to get used to it. And the over-the-shoulder move is new.”

“We don’t have _time_ for her to get _used_ to it,” Cherry snaps. “We’ve got to be bigger and better and bolder than ever. By _Saturday_.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Yolanda pants. “Thanks for coming to my defense, Carmen, but I don’t need it. I’m just not used to having a sparring partner Amazonian enough to throw me around.”

Cherry pops her bottom lip. “What did I _say_ about flirting?”

Yolanda winks before descending into a fit of coughing.

“I’m done.” Cherry throws her hands up. “Come back when you can fall right, Maria.”

“Yolanda,” Yolanda corrects cooly. “And I can do it. Let’s go again, Cherry. I got this.”  

Cherry ignores her. “Debbie, Ruth, c’mere, it’s your turn now. Please tell me you can do that summersalt.”

“Um!” Ruth chirps. “Well, about that…”

“It’s fucking difficult, okay?” Debbie snaps.

Yolanda rolls out of the ring, her face impassive except for the set of her jaw. She mouths something at Rhonda, shrugs at Melrose and then walks calmly over to her bag. She swings it over her shoulder and walks out of the gym.

Yolanda doesn’t return to practice that evening. Arthie rushes to check their room when she comes back to The Dusty Spur to see if she wants to come to dinner with her, Tammé, Sheila and Ruth, but she’s not there. When Arthie returns to an empty motel room half an hour before curfew, her stomach twists. She sits gingerly at the desk, mindful of her sore thighs, and flips through her wrestling notebook. She folds back relevant corners and adds some extra notes in the margins, tapping her pen against her lip while she thinks.

After checking the clock every few minutes for an endless half hour, Arthie sighs. She digs through the nightstand drawer for a flashlight, grabs her notebook, and slides on her shoes.

The autumn air is brisk as Arthie exits her motel room and locks it. Every breath and crunch under her shoe feels like she’s on a soundstage. Arthie sticks to the shadows as she heads towards the pool. She’s careful—the consequences for breaking curfew are probably harsh right now, since everything is so strict right now.

The pool is eerily silent and dizzying, but empty. Arthie’s heart sinks.

Arthie slinks to the parking lot, pushing the switch of her flashlight and slapping it against her hand until it flickers on.

At the far end of the lot Arthie spies a small figure with big hair sitting on the hood of a car. _Bingo._ Arthie clutches her notebook closer and makes her way over.

Yolanda doesn’t startle when Arthie slides onto the hood next to her. She scoots close and passes her the notebook.

“You can ignore the first bit,” Arthie says softly. "But the rest are my wrestling notes. Diagrams, pictures. Do’s and don’ts. It’s a how-to guide. I marked off everything I have about falling for you. And—and we can practice tonight, if you want. So you’ll be ready tomorrow.”

Yolanda looks to the sky and chuckles. “You’re a good fucking friend, Arthie,” she says, resting her head on Arthie’s shoulder. Her hair tickles and her skin is warm.

Arthie is so warm and pleased she can hardly breathe. “Anyone would do this.”

Yolanda snorts. “Oh, I’m sorry, you’ll just have to get in line behind the crowd of friends I have gathered around my car right now. No. No, you’re something special.”

Arthie kicks her legs. Special is… being _special_ to someone is new to her. It means she’s important—that she matters. And to someone as cool as Yolanda? It’s _wonderful_. Arthie is really lucky. She snakes her arms around Yolanda’s shoulders and squeezes.

“I’m supposed to win the match,” Yolanda says. Her voice reverberates through Arthie’s chest.

“What?” Arthie has to stop herself from inhaling deeply, from soaking up the smell of Yolanda’s rich perfume and the smoke and sweat underneath.

“The match with Cherry—I’m supposed to win it.”

“Oh. That’s good.”  

What does she smell like? Arthie didn’t shower before dinner, so she’s probably really gross right now. The thought makes Arthie stiffen.

“You were worried about it earlier. Now you know—there’s nothing to worry about.” Yolanda’s voice is raspy. She presses harder against Arthie’s shoulder.

“Good,” Arthie smiles. She forces herself to relax, to let go. “Now we’ve just got to make sure you look convincing enough to win.”

Yolanda laughs, pulling away from Arthie reluctantly like a magnet from its mate. “Ready to go inside?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthie sighs and kicks her legs in mild protest. “We don’t want to get caught.”

“What a rebel,” Yolanda teases, jumping off the hood of her car. She reaches out a hand for Arthie to take. “Coming to rescue me after curfew.”

Arthie ducks her head and steps down from the car, hissing when her sore muscles protest.

“Were you serious about teaching me how to fall now?” Yolanda asks once Arthie is on solid footing.

“Yeah, of-of course,” Arthie assures her.

“You’re a fucking _livesaver_ , Arthie,” Yolanda stresses, holding Arthie’s wrestling notebook in front of her. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

* * *

“I’m pretty sure my bruises have bruises,” Melrose complains, collapsing against the mat. She blows a raspberry.

“I literally can’t move right now,” Sheila mumbles, licking her wrist. “I literally can’t.”

“I’ve never slept so well in my life,” Arthie mentions. She eases herself into a sitting position, mindful of the bruise on her butt and the mild sprain on her wrist. “I’ve never fallen asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.”

Melrose points a finger in her direction. The other girls nod in agreement. Arthie tunes their chatter out, watching the ring while she takes small sips from a water bottle. She and Yolanda had practiced falling in their motel room last night and in the ring early that morning. After Arthie was satisfied, Yolanda had managed to score a solo session with Carmen. But now Cherry was back, and that’s where the real test began.

“You ready?” Yolanda asks, grinning.

“Can you fall yet?” Cherry asks. “Or are you wasting my time?”

Carmen is quick to reassure her. “Yes. We went through everything—I think she’s ready. I mean. She’s ready.”

Yolanda bounces back and forth a few times as Carmen counts them off. The match goes well, for a skeletal rehearsal—Yolanda and Cherry will embellish it later, add their own personal flair and theatrics. But technically? Every punch lands and every landing sticks. Arthie winces, but in an impressed way, as Cherry throws Yolanda over her shoulder and onto the mat.

“All right,” Cherry says as Yolanda finally stands over her, victorious. She gets up and brushes herself off. “You did good, Yolanda. You free at 3:15 to work out the details?”

Yolanda’s victory dance has Cherry rolling her eyes and shaking her head, but when she and Arthie make eye contact she’s smiling.  _Success_. 

Performing their final matches a few days later for the producers is exhilarating. Arthie isn’t even nervous—she’s so excited to show off what she, Dawn and Stacey have been working on. She might resent them for the new characters they get to embody, but the opportunity to fight two characters at once and learn a bunch of new moves? She loves the challenge. And, well, maybe some of her punches land a little harder than they should. Who can tell?

What surprises her is how the best moments are watching her friends perform. She’s so _proud_ , seeing how a million failed attempts at individual moved have evolved into seamless performances. Melrose and Jenny trade insults and kicks so fast they strike like lightning. Rhonda and Tammé are as surprising comic foils as they are sparring partners. Whatever sadomasochistic chemistry Debbie and Ruth have been dealing with this week has paid off; their match is enthralling. And the moment where Sheila takes Carmen down by the arm is awe-inspiring. The producers—Bash especially—are definitely impressed.

“We were fucking awesome!” Arthie says as everyone begins to gather their stuff. Heads turn to stare at her. “What?”

“I think that’s the first time I heard you curse,” Jenny gasps.

“Yay, we corrupted you!” Melrose says, pulling Arthie into clammy hug. Arthie sputters.

“I’ve cursed before,” she protests. “I curse all the time, right Yo-yo?”

“Yo-yo?” Rhonda says, her eyebrows practically at her hairline. “That’s a cute nickname.”

Yolanda shrugs. “That’s what my friends call me.”

“Back to the more important—nay, the most important—thing at hand,” Melrose says. “Is the sullying of our little angel. Yolanda: does Arthie curse? If so, how often?”

“Hey guys!” Bash interrupts them before Yolanda can respond. “So that was fan- _tastic_. I loved every second. But we’ve gotta talk props, costumes. Who’s first?”

“Me!” Arthie says, worming out of Melrose’s grasp. “Dawn, Stacey, weren't we talking about an electric guitar that's rigged to the lights in the house?”

"Right!" Dawn says, jumping over Carmen's bag to address Bash. "That way it's a performance in 4D."

"It'll enhance the entire wrestling experience," Stacey adds. 

Bash blanches. “Uh, well, off the top of my head I love the idea. There’s a lot of creativity and enthusiasm. Keep that going! But unfortunately I don’t think that’s in our current budgetary capacity...”

* * *

“We were on _fire_ ,” Stacey says as they reach the landing of the director’s booth after their live performance. Justine is in the director’s seat; Sam is filming tonight, looking happier and more engaged than Arthie has ever seen him.

“I know!” Dawn agrees. She reaches out to hold Arthie’s hand. “Arthie, you fought so good tonight!”

“Those moans of pain were very believable,” Stacey adds. They settle onto the couch.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Arthie says, rubbing her arms. “I mean, we worked so hard and now it’s over?”

“You looked fucking incredible,” Melrose says, setting her feet on the table in front of them. “Flawless bitches.”

Carmen turns to smile proudly at them.

“You guys did a wonderful job,” she says. “The backbreaker especially.”

“The improv was funny too,” Rhonda adds. “The bit about nuclear collaboration? Hilarious.”

Arthie bites her lip, pleased. “You and Tammé looked amazing, Rhonda. That handstand? So cool!”

Rhonda makes a shooing motion with her wrist. “That was all Tammé, honestly.”

“What about Carmen and I?” Sheila asks eagerly.

“Fucking cool,” Melrose says, sitting up a little and pointing. “The whole Big Bad Wolf motiff? Keep it. It’s great. You fucking _threw_ her. The crowd lost their collective _minds_."

Sheila beams. “Yeah, I did.”

Carmen’s smile is so bright it lights up the director’s booth.

“How is Junkchain vs. Junkchain going?” Arthie asks, hitching her chin towards the window.

Carmen down onto the ring. “They’re doing well. The crowd loves them. Oh! Sam just climbed in the ring to film them up close.”

Arthie snickers.

“It looks like they’re about to wrap up.”

“You did _amazing_ this week,” Arthie tells her. “All of this is because of you. Training all of us, plus your own fight.”

Carmen’s smile scrunches. “Makes yelling at you all worth it, huh?”

“Sure, boss,” Arthie says, winking obviously.

There’s pandemonium in the stands, so raucous it rocks the booth. It continues for a few minutes, until there’s a hush as Bash announces Zoya and her entrance music starts.

Yolanda bounds into the booth, beaming. “I won!” She stage-whispers. “I won!”

Everyone turns to congratulate her.

“You all need to shut the _fuck_ up,” Justine snaps. “Or I will throw you out! Be quiet! I’m _working_!”

Yolanda looks at her, confused for a moment, then shrugs and moonwalks over to Arthie. She spins and throws herself down, half on the edge of the couch and half in Arthie’s lap, close enough that they can hear each other.

“I won,” Yolanda says again, shaking a little. She’s covered in glitter and wet with sweat.

Arthie laughs. “You did.”

“Thank you again for your help this week,” Yolanda says, playing with one of Arthie’s loose curls. “I appreciate it.”

“It was no problem!” Arthie is quick to assure her.

“Seriously,” Justine says again, slamming her fist on the table. “If anyone says _anything_ else, I am going to throw you all out of here.”

Yolanda giggles and puts a finger to her lips.

They stay silent after that, listening to the crowd react. There are cheers and boos and hisses. Bash’s running commentary gives Arthie a pretty good idea of what’s happening as Liberty Belle and Zoya face off.

It’s starting to feel like nothing can go wrong. Like all their hard work is paying off and it’s going to be the best show of their lives. Like they’re all invincible.

But then Debbie breaks Ruth’s foot and everything goes to shit.


	5. of what is yet to come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to blatant_sock_account for her help with this chapter. she didn't let not watching the show stop her from giving me sound advice when I got stuck.

Arthie scrubs mineral oil-soaked cotton ball after mineral oil-soaked cotton ball over her eyebrows, and then her cheeks, scraping away the purple glitter. Her face, now exfoliated, is raw and tender. With a pained sigh, Arthie slides the used cotton balls into the bathroom trash can. When she looks up, she makes eye contact with herself in the faded, yellowed mirror.

Her reflection stares back, vacant and unfocused. Without her stage makeup, there’s nothing to cover how sick she looks; how deep set her eyes are, how sunken her cheeks have gotten. There’s a mark liked a red stain in the middle of her neck from being held against rope by Dawn. She hadn’t been able to turn around fully, to bear the brunt of the attack on her shoulder like they’d practiced, and had therefore gotten choked for real during their match. It hadn’t hurt at the time, but now there is a mark that is going to develop into a nasty bruise by tomorrow. Her neck is already stiff. Arthie attempts to roll it out and winces.

She reaches to touch the mark, wincing again as she probes it gently with the pads of her fingers. She pauses, tilting to see herself better under the dim light of the bathroom.

When did she get a bruise stretching all the way from her elbow halfway up her forearm? Arthie grimaces. It’s nasty: green and yellow at the edges, black and blue along the center. She can’t even remember—

Standing with her side twisted aggravates the stitch in her side and the shoulder injury she’s been ignoring for weeks. Arthie eases back into a neutral position, gasping as the pain sharpens. She clutches the side of the bathroom countertop.

It’s everywhere, all at once. Her muscles, her bones, her joints and her nerves. Her whole body is screaming.

Everything—the weeks of intense training, the talk with Sam, being in a hospital, the reminder of her own mortality, her helplessness,  _Ruth_ —catches up to Arthie, no longer dampened by adrenaline or alcohol.  

When did _standing_ start to hurt so much?

Clutching her ribs, Arthie hobbles to the shower. She fights tears and eventually gives in, letting the hot water wash them away.

By the time she leaves the bathroom, safe in her favorite pajamas, she’s composed herself. She limps over to her bed and gently eases into it.

“You okay?” Yolanda asks, her voice raspy. She’s got her knees propped up on pillows with bags of ice resting on them. Another bag of ice is on her forehead. She throws a tube of Ben-Gay in Arthie’s direction.

“Mmhmm,” Arthie says. She grabs the Advil bottle from the bedside table and takes two, wishing she'd taken Melrose up on her offer for something stronger. Arthie groans as she reaches for the Ben-Gay tube, untwisting the cap and squeezing out a little of the gel. She applies some to her aching calves, eyes stinging from the menthol. “I’m worried about Ruth.”

“Yeah,” Yolanda breathes. “You know what they say about dancers dying twice.”

“We aren’t dancers,” Arthie argues, but the knot in her stomach says otherwise. The eerie shadows her old medical school textbooks make against the motel room walls haunt her dreams.

* * *

A frantic knocking wakes Arthie from a fitful sleep.

“ _Jesus_!” Yolanda cries.

Arthie rolls out of bed and blearily stumbles her way to the front door. Debbie stares at her through the peephole.

Arthie unlocks and opens the door.

“Hey,” Arthie says. She squints against the sunlight.

“Sam wants everybody ready in 20,” Debbie states, her face impassive. When they make eye contact, Arthie has the distinct feeling that Debbie is looking through her instead of at her. Although her hair is done and her clothes are clean, her lips are cracked from being chewed on and no amount of concealer will cover the dark circles under her eyes. She looks like a Barbie doll that went off model; when you look closer, you start to notice how things are slightly off center. Not quite right.

“Okay,” Arthie says. She waits for further instruction.

A brief scowl flickers over Debbie’s face, so fast Arthie wonders if she imagines it. “Make sure you and Yolanda are at the picnic table by then.”

“Okay,” Arthie says. She eases the door shut, feeling rude for shutting the door on Debbie’s face but unsure of what Debbie wants her to do when she isn’t moving.

“What does La Llorona want?” Yolanda croaks, sitting up and fumbling for the bedside lamp.

“She says Sam is here and that he wants us by the table in 20,” Arthie mumbles, rubbing her face. She sighs and shuffles to the dresser, where she begins looking for some sweats to throw on.

“That’s what I thought,” Yolanda grumps. “Fuck that.”

“He’s going to give us an update on Ruth,” Arthie says. “Hopefully she's okay.”

Yolanda shrugs as she slides out of bed.

* * *

Sam, Bash and Debbie are the only ones who look fully awake. Even Justine, who must have gotten a ride with her dad, is slouched sullenly against the picnic table with her head down. Arthie sits on the ground and watches as the other wrestlers begin to file out in various states of half-dress.

“All right, listen up,” Sam begins. He scratches at the stubble growing on his jawline. He’s still wearing last night’s rumpled clothes. “Ruth came home from the hospital early this morning. She has an ankle fracture and will need to be off her foot for the next eight to ten weeks.”

“What?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Are you for serious?”

“Oh, poor thing!”

Arthie’s pulse is loud in her ears. She plucks a piece of grass and rolls it between her fingers, watching Sam sigh and tap his foot as he waits for the girls to be silent.

After another minute, Sam grunts. “Hey, hey, settle down.” He sniffs and rubs his nose. “She’s not a beloved pet horse that I’m about to take behind the barn, okay? She’s being professional about this and you all will be too.”

There’s silence for a beat before Cherry scoffs: “So that’s it? You’re sending her home?”

Sam scowls. “You think she’d let me?”

Debbie coughs and Sam is quick to add: “The producers and I talked it over last night and we’re gonna work the whole leg thing into the show. How? I dunno. That’s for you girls to figure out. We’ve got four shows left and we’re airing at 2 a.m., so why the fuck not? It’s not like we have anything to lose. I know you all must have hidden talents or secret dreams or whatever. Let’s use them. Go wild. Who the fuck cares anymore.”

A bubble of hope rises in Arthie’s chest. She flexes her fingers and drops the crushed grass so she can raise her hand, a small smile on her face.

Sam looks at her, his expression impossible to read behind his sunglasses. “Before you ask—no new characters. Cherry has dibs on that from the Loser Leaves Town match. She’s something called Black Magic now. I don’t know, don’t ask me. If anyone has any questions, direct your questions to her.”

Arthie curls her fingers around her palm, lowering her hand slowly. It’s so _unfair_! A sympathetic hand rubs her shoulder and another person murmurs, “Sorry Arthie." 

“Here’s the plan,” Bash jumps in, rubbing his hands together. He pops his collar. “We’ve been through a lot. You all can take the next few days off. Get together, talk among yourselves. Collaborate. I need you to bring us your thirty best ideas by Tuesday. Have fun. Think big. Remember we have a limited budget. And that we’re on cable television, so, uh, nothing too violent or sexual. Try to have some good messages for the kids.”  

He stops to smile encouragingly at them, waving his hands in small circles like a conductor. “Who’s ready to get their creative juices flowing?”

Everyone stares at him.

“See you in a few days,” Sam says, rubbing his forehead. When nobody moves, he looks up and snaps. “What are you looking at? You have four days, get to work!”

Arthie stands and turns to look at Cherry. Cherry sighs and addresses Sheila.

“Sheila, honey,” she asks. “How is Ruth doing?”

“She’s sleeping!” Sheila is quick to defend. Her wig is crooked. She’s not wearing makeup and looks really young. Innocent. “Nobody can wake her!”

“We won’t,” Cherry assures her. “What time did she get back?”

“Five in the morning,” Sheila says, playing with her hands. “Sam and Bash had to carry her inside. She has crutches.”

Arthie hisses sympathetically.

“So what are we going to do now?” Jenny asks. “You know, to come up with ideas?”

“Let’s go somewhere,” Tammé says. “We need to brainstorm, and I don’t know about you, but I need food.”

“Thank god,” Melrose says, throwing her head back. “I’m fucking _starving._ ”

“Where do you want to go?” Rhonda asks.

“We could go to the mall?” Stacey suggests.

“I bet there’s a lot of inspiration there,” Dawn adds.

Cherry shoots them a look. “No, we need to be focused. And we need to go somewhere that can hold us all.”

“There’s always Denny’s,” Arthie suggests.

“Perfect,” Cherry nods.

Debbie marches over to them. “So, what have we decided? When are we meeting?”

No one answers, either avoiding her gaze or staring at her in outright hostility. Debbie looks at them blankly.

“What? I’m still the face. I need to be part of the creative process.”

Tammé sighs. “We’re going to Denny’s. You can meet us there in an hour and a half. Not all of us had advanced warning of this little meeting. Some of us still need to put our faces on.”  

“Thank you, Tammé,” Debbie says coolly. As if their meeting is a piece of information she had to pry from a naughty child. She turns on her heel and leaves, brushing past Sam and Bash to go sit in her car.

Melrose and Jenny give Tammé a disgusted look.

“What? She’s part of the team,” Tammé says, holding her hands up.

“We need to be professional,” Cherry adds.

Melrose rolls her eyes. “Yeah, whatever.”

“I am so _sick_ of your attitude,” Cherry says.

“Hey,” Carmen says, stepping between them. “Let’s go get ready, okay?”

“I need your costumes!” Jenny yells before anyone can leave. “I’ll bring them to the dry cleaner myself this week.”

“I’m doing a music video,” Melrose says. “Just, like, right off the bat: I’m doing a music video. I don’t care what it’s about. I’m doing one.”

Everyone ignores her as they begin to file back to their motel rooms.

“Do you have any ideas?” Arthie asks Yolanda as they approach their door.

Yolanda shrugs. “I’ll probably wind up choreographing,” she says. “Cherry and Carmen might be good for wrestling, but they can’t move. If we’re doing anything but wrestling, we need someone who can teach everyone else how to dance.”

“Oh,” Arthie says as Yolanda fumbles with her keys and pushes the door open. The room still smells like mint. “That’s cool.”

Yolanda smiles. “It’s a nice break from getting thrown onto the mat fifty times in a row.”

* * *

“Can I play with your hair?” Rhonda asks, flexing her fingers as they wait on the bleachers for Sam to descend from the director’s booth. He thankfully rounds the corner and begins to march downstairs before Arthie can respond.

“All right,” Sam sighs, coming to stand in front of the everyone on the bleachers. He clutches his binder to his stomach. “Sheila, take notes. I hope you all enjoyed your break. I’m excited to see what ideas you girls have come up with. Who wants to start? Ruth? Wow me.”

“Well,” Ruth says, attempting to shift her weight on the bleacher and nearly falling over. Reggie places a firm hand on her shoulder to straighten her out. “Prepare to be wowed. What if Zoya has an identical twin named Olga who happens to have a bad foot? She can call Olga for help selling Savannah Rose, and then Olga can come to America to find Liberty Belle and give her Savannah Rose’s location.”

“What?” Sam asks, looking at Bash in confusion.

Debbie interrupts. “Olga is the good twin, so when Zoya tells her where she’s keeping Savannah she decides to come to America to tell Liberty Belle.”

Sam turns to stare at Debbie.

“This way Liberty Belle can fight everyone who’s helping Zoya without having to fight Zoya herself,” Ruth says. Her smile is wide and her eyes animated as she talks. As long as she's absorbed by GLOW-related things, she's in remarkably good spirits. “She can rescue Savannah Rose too. And as a thank-you present Liberty Belle can pay for a surgery to fix Olga’s foot, but the big twist is that the doctor is actually Zoya in disguise. So we can end that storyline on a cliffhanger.”

Sam sighs. “Okay, this has potential, I will give you that. What else you got? Melrose, I see you raising your hand. What is this, grade school?”

“GlowTV,” Melrose says, putting her hand down. She beams. “Like MTV.”

Sam waits. “Okay, and?”

“We make music videos.”

“About?” Sam waves his hand in a circle, urging Melrose to continue.

“Being hot?” Melrose asks with an incredulous laugh.

Sam sighs. “Please tell me your idea is more concrete than that.”

“Have you ever seen actual MTV?” Justine asks. She blows some hair out of her face. “That’s all she needs as a starting concept.”

“Fine,” Sam groans. “Come to me tomorrow morning with some _actual_ music video ideas and we’ll talk.”

Melrose cheers.

“Does anyone have _wrestling_ ideas?” Sam asks. "You all remember we're making a  _wrestling_ show, right?"

“I’m going to make Thomas real,” Rhonda says, bouncing a little on the bleacher from behind Arthie. 

“Thomas?” Sam says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“My boyfriend?” Rhonda says, as though Thomas's identity is obvious. “The mannequin? I’m going to make him come to life."

“You mean _Black Magic_ is going to make him come to life,” Cherry interrupts. “Britannica makes a deal with Black Magic: her intelligence for Thomas's life.”

“But Britannica makes a backup of her brain on a floppy disk,” Rhonda says. “And when Black Magic discovers that, they fight about it in the ring.”

Sam looks relieved. “See, this I can get behind. This is quality. Good job, girls.”

“Ooh!” Bash jumps in. “Can I play Thomas?”

“I was hoping you’d ask that,” Rhonda giggles. "Of course you can, Bash. I'd be honored."

“Yes!” Bash says, grinning. He winks up towards Rhonda.

“What else?” Sam asks.

“I want to ride a horse,” Rhonda continues.

Sam looks at her and rubs his forehead in resignation. “I’ll—I'll consider it. Next!” 

“I want to dance,” Arthie says with a rush of confidence. Heads swivel to look at her. “Before Beirut became a terrorist, she wanted to be a dancer.”

Sam pauses, shifting the entirety of his attention to her.

“Something beautiful and classy,” Arthie continues, “Think Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. We can pre-record it and tie it into the A plot, since _obviously_ Liberty Belle is going to fight Beirut at some point.”

“Do you even dance?” Sam asks.

Arthie nods.

“All right, fine. Enjoy. You’ll look great. Can’t wait to see the final product.”

Arthie grins. It might not be a different character, but it’s _something_. Someone reaches over to rub her arm excitedly.  

“We want to do a cooking show,” Dawn says.

“But like, with _science_ ,” Stacey adds.

“You want to do science experiments?” Sam says. “That’s seriously your idea?”

“But funny!” Stacey says.

“For kids!” Dawn says.

Sam blinks at them. “What else you got?”

Stacey deflates.

“Never mind,” Sam sighs. “We’ll circle back. Tammé, you’ve been quiet.”

“I’m going to be an entrepreneur,” Tammé states.

Sam stares at her. “That’s your idea? Welfare Queen becomes an entrepreneur?”

“I've already sold 10 action figures at our meet-n-greets. I'm about to make another 20. I've talked to the Russell the camera guy about filming the commercial on Friday. We can air it during the show.”

Sam blinks at her a few times from behind his glasses before breaking out into a huge grin. “What? That’s awesome. Why didn’t I think of that? Great idea, Tammé.”

Arthie tunes out the rest of the meeting, which drags on as more ideas are tossed out, rejected and refined.

“All right,” Sam says finally, jerking Arthie from her thoughts. “You all had a lot of ideas. Some were great. You’ll get tentative rehearsal schedules by the end of the day. Debbie, Bash—my office, ten minutes.”

Arthie rushes down the bleacher stairs and leaps over everyone’s bags, nearly tripping over Dawn’s makeup case in her haste.

“Bash,” Arthie calls. He turns to smile at her, his dimples popping. “Hey! Will you be my dance partner?”

Bash grins. “Sure, I’d love to! I love getting to play so many hot guys. Thomas, and now your dance partner. This is so cool!”

“Thanks,” Arthie giggles, giddy. Bash as her partner is exactly what her dance needs: someone strong and handsome to lead her, to support her as she twirls and glides. 

“Oh Bash,” Rhonda calls, waving at him. He pats Arthie on the shoulder hesitantly, like she’s a dog he doesn't know how to show affection to, and jogs over to where Rhonda is talking to Carmen and Cherry.

“Hey,” Yolanda says, appearing by Arthie’s side. She hands Arthie her bag and then swings her own over her shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something—you have a dance background, don’t you?”

Arthie shrugs. “A bit, why?”

“The pictures in your wrestling book,” Yolanda says. “I could really use an assistant choreographer. Someone to help me keep track of everything and to help the other girls practice. If you’d be interested.”

Arthie bites her lip. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, that sounds really cool.”

Yolanda grins, crinkling her eyes in a way that causes something inside Arthie to jolt ever-so-slightly. “Awesome. We can get started on your dance later tonight if you want. And let’s check the TV Guide when we get back to the motel. They’re bound to play some classics, right? We can watch them for inspiration.”

A warm, pleased feeling spreads across Arthie’s chest and neck. “Y-yeah, that sounds really nice, Yo-yo.”

“Yolanda,” Debbie states, interrupting them. The warm feeling shatters like a broken mirror. “Hi. We, um, haven’t talked much before.”

Yolanda looks Debbie up and down with a raised eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to, um. Offer you my house to use as a dance studio. I’m… redecorating and haven’t bought any furniture yet, so it’s a big open space.”

Yolanda purses her lips. “Don’t you live all the way out in Pasadena?”

Debbie twists her mouth. “But, well—it’s not _that_ far.”

Arthie twists her mouth, looking from Yolanda to Debbie and back.

“Do you have mirrors set up?” Yolanda asks. Her tone is direct. Not hostile, but jarring from how kind she was with Arthie a minute ago. “A barre?”

Debbie shakes her head.

“I was thinking we’d use my studio,” Yolanda says, adjusting the strap of her bag. “It’s, like, ten minutes from here and the owners love me. We can rent the space super cheap.”

“The _stripper_ studio?” Debbie hisses.

Yolanda shrugs. “Anyone can use it. Let’s keep your house in mind for a filming location, though. What was that thing you wanted to do, again?”

Debbie smiles like it pains her. “Griefercize.”

Yolanda smiles. “Yeah, Griefercize. Sounds really funny. When do you wanna get together to work on that?”

Arthie walks away as Yolanda and a placated Debbie work out the details of her exercise video. The sweet instrumental of _Cheek to Cheek_ swells in Arthie’s head.

It might not be a new character, but her dance is going to be _amazing_. A welcome respite from the draining stereotype of Beirut. A chance to do something fun and sexy. To expand her range.

It’s the start of a new chapter. Good things are coming. Arthie can feel it.


	6. forgetting to breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ! a rating change

Yolanda is an incredible dancer. Breathtaking. Like honey, gliding smooth and graceful, catching the light as if liquid gold and causing warmth to pool somewhere low in Arthie’s stomach.

Arthie could watch her all day.

She wishes she had that privilege.

But she’s got work to do. Her time learning the dream ballet with Yolanda is precious; a welcome respite from the chaos of wrestling training. Arthie is eager to impress her, for her to teach Arthie how to be as beautiful as she is. Arthie relishes in Yolanda's careful attention.

“Lift here,” Yolanda husks, pressing her hand against Arthie’s stomach.

“Develop this,” Yolanda instructs, her hand sliding from Arthie’s thigh to her calf.

“Higher,” Yolanda whispers, her chest flush against Arthie’s back, her deft fingers pressing against Arthie’s wrists.

“Good,” Yolanda says, her eyes warm and glittery as Arthie performs for her.

How could Bash’s clumsy hands ever compare to Yolanda’s sure ones? How could Bash watching her make her feel anything, when he doesn't know how to appreciate form and movement and shape and Yolanda was the one who taught Arthie the dance in the first place? 

How could Rhonda possibly get it when she ribs Arthie about finally dancing with her real partner? Or when Carmen asks, face flushed, what it’s like dancing with Bash as though he’s the _better_ option?

Arthie’s heart never misses beats when Carmen demonstrates a how to do a back bumps or sunset flips. Her entire being doesn’t tingle with giddy electricity when Cherry adjusts her posture for planks or sit-ups.

Arthie has never wanted to press her face against Tammé’s or Jenny’s or Debbie’s skin and inhale, to see if _they_ smell like honey underneath the sweat and perfume. She doesn’t wonder if Ruth and Melrose are warm even after it gets dark, as if they’ve soaked up sunlight. Words like _soft_ and _supple_ and _sweet_ don’t come to mind when Arthie thinks of her other friends.

When Arthie can’t sleep at night, flipping around her pillows until she can find a cool spot for her overheated face, she decides that it must be because Yolanda is so amazing. She doesn’t want to wrap herself around her friends’ ankles or marvel at them in adoration because they aren’t _wonders_.

So when it gets really, really late, and Arthie is absolutely certain Yolanda is asleep and she’s in that drowsy place where everything is sensitive and clumsy, Arthie sneaks a hand under her nightgown and into her underwear. She’s careful. The only thing she moves is her ring finger, stroking just above her clit. She doesn’t even dare to breathe.

The Dusty Spur creaks and its pipes groan. The walls are thin and scattered conversations hum indistinctly, more vibrations than sound. Arthie bites her lip and screws up her eyes, increasing the tempo just slightly. It’s still silent in her and Yolanda’s room. It’s hot, too; Arthie’s hair sticks to her forehead and she’s sweaty under the covers.

Arthie comes with no fanfare, just a slight uptick of her hips and an overwhelmed, oversaturated feeling that passes in waves. She presses her flushed face into her pillow and inhales through her nose, pressing into her hand. Her pillow is her lifeline. She clings to it until the waves pass and she can readjust, can find a sleeping position and take silent, shuddering breaths to calm her racing heart.

If she didn’t know better she’d say a pair of dark, bemused eyes were watching her in the dark.

* * *

The day they are set to film the dream ballet, Bash arrives late. Arthie makes idle, uncomfortable chitchat with Ruth and Russell while Yolanda squeezes in a few extra minutes of rehearsal in with Melrose and the rest of the “Makeover” cast. Half of them still can’t find the upbeat and Yolanda's voice is starting to go hoarse from counting it out.

“Do you like the set?” Ruth asks, grinning. She gestures to the dreamy cloud backdrop and Roman-style bench.

“Don’t tell her it’s from a porn,” Russell stage-whispers to Ruth, making her giggle and wave him off. Arthie’s heart pangs and she slides her hands along the satin of her costume. It makes a satisfying _swish_ sound.

When Bash eventually shows up, handsome in an expensive suit, he’s pale and twitchy.

“I didn’t know I’d have to wear _makeup_ ,” he says, clenching his fists at his thighs.

“It’ll look better on camera,” Ruth says, leaning back on her crutch. “Don’t you wear makeup other times you’re on camera?”

“Yeah, but,” Bash swallows audibly. His eyes shift side-to-side. “This is for a _dance_.”

“Well, you’re ready now,” Ruth says, limping over to the cassette player. “Places! Russell, are you ready?”

“Yep,” Russell says. “Arthie, move your head a little to the right. Look up. There.”

“Yolanda!” Ruth calls. “We’re starting.” Arthie sees her rush over out of the corner of her eye.

Arthie’s heart is in her throat while she dances on camera for the first time, her pulse pounding in her ears so loud she can hardly hear the music. She forgets all of Yolanda’s careful corrections. She forgets to use her facial expressions. Bash doesn’t fare much better, standing behind her, out of sync with clammy palms.

“Cut!” Ruth calls. She bites her cheek. “Take five and we’ll try again?”

Bash marches away to talk to Carmen. Arthie nearly collapses, sliding miserably on the floor. Yolanda approaches Arthie and touches her shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

“Nervous,” Arthie says. She shudders. “I—I don’t know. The camera, and the people watching—I want to do this well.”

“And you will,” Yolanda’s voice is soft as she crouches down beside Arthie. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

Arthie lets herself lean into Yolanda’s touch. “Okay.”

Arthie is sure she imagines it, but she swears Yolanda brushes her lips against Arthie’s head as she gets up. She definitely lets her hand linger on Arthie’s shoulder as she turns to let Ruth know they’re ready.

The second shoot is smoother and more natural. Arthie is in her body and the music now, Yolanda’s corrections muscle memory. Her smiles are genuine.

Bash, though, is doing worse. His hands at Arthie’s sides are too light and unsure. He stays a full step behind her, his feet shuffling awkwardly while she glides gracefully in her jazz shoes.

“I’m not good at this,” Bash whines, letting go while Arthie is still en relevé. She stumbles and falls out of her turn.

Ruth cuts out the music, the _click_ of the cassette player faint in the open space of the gym.

“Take another five?” She suggests, limping forward. “Maybe Yolanda can walk you through it again? If you’ve forgotten...”

“I’m just really stressed right now!” Bash snaps, taking a step back while Ruth advances on him. “I have a lot going on, you know? It’s a lot of work being the announcer and Thomas, plus the other cameos, not to mention _producing_ the show.”

“I know it’s a lot,” Ruth soothes. She’s a good actress, Arthie thinks. She has at least double his roles, an unacknowledged director’s job _and_ a broken ankle.

“I didn’t know it would be so hard,” Bash says, pouting slightly. He presses on his eyes and draws them together.

“Yolanda can walk you through the steps,” Ruth offers again. “They won’t be so hard broken down.”

“I don’t,” Bash gulps for air. “I don’t want everyone to _see_ me. You know. _Dancing_. On TV.”

“Why? It’s a dance sequence,” Ruth says, her voice ticking up at the end.

“Dudes don’t dance,” Bash fidgets with the bottom of his dress shirt. “Dancing is for _pussies_.”

“There are plenty of male dancers,” Ruth argues.

“Well, maybe I’m not one of them!” Bash snaps. “I’m not _one of them_ , okay?”

He stalks off. Arthie twists her mouth as she watches him leave, stinging with betrayal.

“We’ll figure something out,” Ruth is quick to assure her. “Maybe Russell can sub in? He’s already helping with some of my Zoya sketches. I’m sure Phil can film this.”

Arthie glances at Russell. Sweet, tall, balding, always-smells-like-pizza Russell.

He’s… not who she pictured for an idyllic dream ballet partner. He's not sophisticated and handsome. He's not who she _wants_ to be broadcast dancing with into the homes of millions of viewers.

“Can Russell dance?” Yolanda asks, coming to stand beside Arthie.

“No,” Russell says, peeking out behind his camera. “Absolutely not. I do not currently nor will I ever have those capabilities.”

Arthie takes a deep breath and looks up to avoid tears.

Yolanda’s hand on her elbow grounds her.

“I don’t want to cancel my dance,” Arthie says without looking down. “It’s—it’s stupid, but I was really looking forward to it.”

Yolanda wraps her hands around Arthie's forearms. “You shouldn’t have to give up because your dance partner—who can't take direction or move his hips, for the record—bails.”

Yolanda’s grin makes it impossible for Arthie not to at least attempt one.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” Yolanda says, squeezing her hands gently. “I’m going to figure something out.”

Arthie sighs. It’s probably too late—how many men do they know who can dance? They don’t even have the money to hire someone, anyway. It’s better just to let the whole thing go. It was a dumb idea in the first place.

“Hey,” Yolanda interrupts her thoughts. “Do you trust me?” Her eyes are intense and calculating, lit with a new brand of fierceness Arthie’s never seen.

Arthie bites her lip and nods. She doesn't want to be hopeful in case she gets hurt, but... but she does trust Yolanda. 

“Good. Someone will come get you when we’ve sorted everything out. Go help Rhonda and Cherry.” Yolanda lets go of Arthie and turns to look at Ruth. “Do you know where Jenny is?”

Arthie shivers and backs away, her chest and arms tingling.

* * *

“Stay on key!” Sheila growls. “You're still flat! It’s not hard, Justine. I know you know this."

“I’m trying!” Justine growls back. “Why did you have to write this so _stupidly_? It doesn’t even make sense!”

“Hey!” Debbie jumps in. “The cereal line makes perfect sense!”

“Who even drinks milk?” Justine asks. “The key _and_ tempo changes here and it throws the whole thing off.”  

Sheila stretches her mouth wide. “Do you think that. Maybe. You could have brought up your concerns with me _before we rehearsed this for a week_?”

“It’s not even my part!” Justine defends, holding up her hands. “I’m just subbing in for Yolanda while she takes care of some shit.”

“Then you can keep your mouth shut unless you’re singing _correctly_ ,” Debbie snaps.

“Hey, Arthie,” Dawn hisses from around the bleachers. “Ready to film your dance?” A giggle escapes from behind her hand.

“Your new partner is ready for you,” Stacey grins, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet.

“Oooh,” Melrose says, overhearing them. “Can we watch?”

“No!” Sheila snaps. “You still don’t know your harmonies! We film _tomorrow_ , remember?”

“Killjoy,” Melrose grumps. “I know, like, 90% of them.”

Arthie slides off the bench and follows Dawn and Stacey to the dream ballet set.

It’s Yolanda who greets her there, hair slicked back and dressed sharply in Bash's now-tailored tuxedo, a proud smile on her face. She bows when she sees Arthie before popping up with an even brighter smile.

“What do you think?” Yolanda asks, quirking her eyebrow.

Arthie stares. She doesn’t mean to be rude. She’s just. _Wow_.

“Awe—awesome,” Arthie breathes. “You look… really good.”

Yolanda’s smile softens. “Ready to dance? You better be, because we’ve already done this a hundred times in the studio.”

“Y-yeah,” Arthie swallows.

Yolanda winks at her and gets into position. Arthie shakes her head and does as well.

“Remember your blocking,” Ruth chirps, looking at her clipboard. “And your character. Before Beirut was a terrorist, she wanted to be a dancer. This was the last dance before the bomb blew up the theater you performed in…”

“Right,” Arthie says. She rolls her shoulders and tries to remember who Beirut is, who Beirut _was_ at the time of this dance. She faces the camera and takes a stuttering breath.

“Perfect,” Ruth says. “Hold that. Russell, you rolling?”

“Mmhmm.”  

“Action!”

 _Click_.

Arthie begins, as graceful as the slick material of her dress. She glides over to where Yolanda is standing in the shadows. There’s a small, pleased smile on her face while she watches Arthie.

Even though they’re in a gym, surrounded by people and cameras, they’re suddenly alone. Yolanda is everywhere. Her hands linger at Arthie’s waist, her arms, her cheek. She’s holding her, supporting her. Caressing her. They dance together, a wordless conversation of ebbs and flows, refined so many times in rehearsal that all Arthie has to do is take a deep breath and _feel_.

Excitement. Exhilaration. Nervous. Confident.

Desire.

Something mysterious twinkles in Yolanda’s eyes as Arthie walks her backwards. Arthie’s heart pangs. This feels…exhilarating. 

“Cut!” Ruth calls.

Yolanda laughs, throaty and relieved. She goes to take a step back when Arthie practically collapses into her, her arms around Yolanda’s shoulders. She presses her face into Yolanda’s neck, squinting and inhaling. Under the smoke and sweat, Yolanda smells like plum and honey and something dark and musky Arthie can’t identify. Yolanda's pulse picks up, thrumming in Arthie’s ears.

“Hey,” Yolanda whispers, surprised but pleased, her hands fluttering to rub Arthie’s bare back.

“ _T_ _hank you_ ,” Arthie breathes. Yolanda nods and squeezes her close.

* * *

Arthie and Yolanda get swept up in filming the pre-recorded segments of the show and prepping for the live matches. They all do, until suddenly it’s their last week and everything is about _last times_ and _goodbye_ instead of looking to the future.

Arthie starts keeping track of last things, trying not to show how miserable the looming finale makes her. She knows when they film the last promos, when they take their last Monday morning jog through the mountains and go out together for Taco Tuesday. She gets teary during Carmen’s last badass demonstration. It hurts her heart to think of all the last moments between them she’s not even aware of, like the final M&M in the bag she didn’t savor properly until it’s too late. How’s she supposed to know when Cherry and Melrose’s will never fight over something stupid again? Or when Debbie and Tammé come in late after their last “secret” trip to the mall? Rhonda’s last bad rap? The last time Ruth nearly takes someone out with her crutches? The last time she and Jenny sneak a box of Nerds during a rehearsal?

The night Sam instructs them to begin packing only worsens Arthie’s mood. She waits until her drawers are empty to tackle the desk. After some deliberation, she decides that there's no sense in keeping her textbooks. It doesn’t pay to lug them around. She’s forgotten so much information already. She doesn’t _want_ to keep them.

They make satisfying _thunks_ against the ground as she tosses them towards the plastic trash can in the middle of the floor.

Arthie desperately doesn’t want it all to end. Doesn’t want GLOW to fade into oblivion, like the last year was just a crazy fever dream. She doesn’t want to face the reality that without GLOW she’s got nothing and no one.

What’s she going to do in a week? Go back to her parents’ house with no career and no future, a med school dropout and a retired female wrestler? Help out in the store? Help with the books? Eventually go back to school? Hope that maybe one day she will find a project as interesting as GLOW? Try to join a group of friends she loves as much as the GLOW girls?

Because as much as they drive each other crazy and as much as they promise to keep in touch when the show is over, Arthie knows she’s never going to have what she has with GLOW.

It feels pointless to even try to think of alternatives.

So when Yolanda, sensing her dour mood, begins to dance instead of pack, Arthie can’t help the way she flushes. And continues to flush, as Yolanda looks at her, _compliments her_ , intense and pretty.

“You’re a crazy good dancer, Arthie,” Yolanda says, her quick hands folding her clothes without even looking. “And you’re really fun to live with.”

“You’re the coolest,” Arthie enthuses. Because—because how can Yolanda say those things about _her_ , when Yolanda is all those things and _more_?

“True.” Yolanda nods. She turns to face Arthie, her face serious until she breaks out into a wide, teasing grin. “See? How I accepted that?”

She pads gently towards Arthie, coming to sit beside her on the bed. She’s so close their shoulders brush. Arthie can smell her perfume again, sweet and dark and mysterious all at once. Yolanda reaches over to stroke the satin of Arthie’s dream dance costume, nearly touching their fingers through the fabric.

“I don’t want this to end,” Arthie admits, looking at Yolanda. She tries to soak it all in, tries to remember what Yolanda looks like. The way her dark eyes shine, the mole above her lip, the way her lipstick fades from red to brown. How tenderly she looks at Arthie. How soft she looks to touch.

“What if we, uh,” Yolanda pauses. It’s the first crack in her bravado Arthie can remember. “Kept living together?” Her eyes search Arthie’s hopefully.

A tightness Arthie didn’t even know had been in her chest cracks open.

“I’d be into it,” she breathes.

She and Yolanda share a relieved laugh. Yolanda reaches through the sky blue satin for Arthie’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Yolanda admits bashfully. She bites her lip and grins at Arthie.

“Oh,” Arthie teases. Her brain shorts out as Yolanda traces a small pattern on her wrist and climbs her fingers towards Arthie's elbow. She tries to think of something suave to say, something Yolanda would say if their positions were reversed. “This is something you’ve thought a lot about, then?”

Yolanda chuckles, knocking into Arthie with her shoulder. “Shut up,” she teases, still grinning.

“Make me,” Arthie challenges, suddenly brave.

Yolanda raises her eyebrows. “Make you?"

Arthie nods, eyes wide.

“Are you forgetting that we’re _professional wrestlers_?” Yolanda laughs, swinging around to straddle Arthie’s knees. “Threats like that can’t be taken lightly.”

"All I hear is a lot of talk and no action," Arthie sighs, bracing her arms behind her. 

"That's it, you're going down!" 

Yolanda pushes her gently back onto the bed, upsetting all of Arthie’s carefully folded clothes. “Hey! I worked hard on these!”

“Yeah?” Yolanda says, holding her arms out. “What are you going to do about it, Arthie?”

Yolanda shifts forward so she’s straddling Arthie’s hips, holding her captive with her thighs, and all at once Arthie can’t breathe. Her laughter comes in short, hysterical bursts.

“Are you gonna have to… _repack_?” Yolanda taunts. “Can we end this here like civilized people or do we have to take it to the ring?”

The edges of Arthie’s vision start to go blurry as she reaches for her pillow. She manages to grab it and smack Yolanda with it, knocking her off balance. Arthie rolls onto her side in self-defense.

“Foul!” Yolanda cries, scrambling to lay next to Arthie. “That’s an illegal use of a weapon. You’re disqualified.”

Yolanda shifts to face her so they’re knee-to-knee, nose-to-nose.

“Hey,” she grins.

“Hi,” Arthie breathes. They’re so close she feels Yolanda’s breath in short puffs, warm and damp. Her eyeliner is smudged.

“I work tomorrow,” Yolanda mentions suddenly, rolling onto her back. She folds her hands over her stomach. “Something you’d be interested in?”

Arthie’s head swirls. “Like… a show?”

“Let’s go with that. Come at 5?” She turns to look at Arthie, her smile soft. “I’d like to have you there.”

She reaches out her hand to brush her fingers against Arthie’s, gently tugging her hand onto her belly so she can press their palms together like two halves of a seashell. Arthie is so overwhelmed she has to remind herself to breathe.


	7. thinking is dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I didn't expect this chapter to be so difficult to write. I went through 10 endings, 6 second drafts and 4 finale outlines before I found something organic to carry us through. So here we are, finally! Thank you for your patience and continued interest in this story. The comments and kudos are wonderful. :D 
> 
> Blatant-sock-account continues to be an excellent sounding board despite not watching the show and nor having any interest in doing so. She's also the most patient friend, for obvious reasons.

“You’ve got this,” Arthie mutters, toeing a crack in the asphalt. _Chickie’s_ , the sign reads. _Come for the wings. Stay for the breasts_.

Arthie shades her eyes. The Pepto-Bismal pink building is blinding in the harsh afternoon light. Arthie checks her watch. It’s 5:30, and she’s been psyching herself up to go inside for nearly 20 minutes.

 _She invited you_ , Arthie reminds herself.

Arthie bites her cheek and adjusts the bottom of her shirt. It’s her favorite one, the loose-collared plaid stripped with yellows, burnt oranges and blues. She’d unpacked and repacked her suitcase twice that morning, because what do people even wear to strip clubs?

 _She_ invited _you. She wants you here._

What does it mean, that Yolanda invited her?

“You gonna go in?” A girl with glossy black hair in a lime green shirt asks, coming up from behind Arthie. She slings a small duffel bag over her shoulder. “You lost or something?”

“N-no,” Arthie says. “Yo-yo—Yolanda invited me…”

“Oh.” The girl raises an eyebrow. “C’mon, then.”

“I’m Arthie.”

“I know,” the girl says as Arthie follows her inside. They walk into a dimly-lit foyer, where a pale, stern-looking woman dressed all in black sits behind a counter. Arthie peers around the girl’s shoulder into the rest of the club, but she can’t see much. It smells musty, like old carpet.

“Hi Virginia,” the girl inclines her head towards the woman, coming to stand in front of the counter.

“House fee’s 25 today, Sandy,” Virginia says. Sandy sighs and reaches into her shirt, pulling out a wad of folded bills. She thumbs through them and hands Virginia her change.

“How fast can you be on the floor?” Virginia asks. “Juliet was a no-show, and that guy Larry asked about you.”

Sandy shrugs. “Gimme 10.”

“That’s my girl,” Virginia says. “Have a good night out there. Remember to take a break and eat something this time.”

Sandy rolls her eyes and smiles, ducking around the counter and behind a red velvet curtain. 

Arthie approaches the counter next. She doesn’t twist her fingers together or straighten her back. She won’t make it obvious how nervous she is.

_Yolanda invited me._

“I need to see some ID, sweetheart,” Virginia says, looking her over. “And there’s a $10 cover.”

Arthie fumbles for her wallet. She hands over her driver’s license and a $20 bill.

Virginia looks at her card, then her, then back at her card. Arthie squirms.

“That’s me,” Arthie says, her cheeks warming. _Duh_.

“Do you want me to break this for you?” Virginia asks, holding up the bill.

“Yes, please,” Arthie says, relieved. She’d tried to get her friends to break it for her earlier, but there was no easy way to pay everyone back and when Melrose and Rhonda had asked why she needed so many singles she dropped the whole thing.

“Your cover was paid in advance,” Virginia informs Arthie, handing her back her license and the full amount of her change. “I recommend you try our hot wings. Please remember no touching, fondling, groping or harassing our girls. If you want attention you pay for it.”

Arthie nods, wide-eyed. Groping? Fondling? Harassing?

“She’s wearing yellow,” Virginia adds, her gaze softening. “She tends to stay in the back… Thereabouts.” Virginia gestures with a manicured hand.

“Thank you,” Arthie says. She nods once and tucks the money back into her wallet.  

“Have fun,” Virginia commands, shaking her head and chuckling.

“I will,” Arthie smiles, hopefully looking more excited than nervous. She steps around Virginia’s counter and into the club.

The space is big but it’s claustrophobic, centered around a raised dance floor with thick metal poles on either side and a suspended hoop in the middle. There are dancers performing on stage, but even though they’re there together, their acts are separate. Other dancers strut around the club, delivering drinks and talking to customers so dull they blend into the décor. It smells like smoke and many different kinds of perfume, which makes Arthie’s head hurt. It’s disorienting in the club, too; there are lights and mirrors everywhere, and speakers pump out heavy, pulsating music.

“Pardon me, sweetheart,” a woman wearing only a red garter belt and panties says, gracefully side-stepping around Arthie.

Arthie flushes and ducks out of her way. She doesn’t know where to look and doesn’t want to stare. It’s chaotic in here. Different. She’s out of her element. But she’s determined to like it, because Yolanda is here and she _invited_ her and Arthie is going to watch her dance.

There are seats close to the stage, velvet booths further back, and boxes with curtains in the front off to Arthie’s left. Arthie sticks to the booths, running her hand along the plum-colored velvet as she looks around. She keeps her eye out for a dancer in yellow but doesn’t spy one.

The girls are fun to watch, though. They’re so _strong_ , winding around poles on six-inch heels, striking poses and then gracefully gliding down like they're made of silk.

Arthie has never seen so many bare breasts. She doesn’t want to stare—doesn’t want to get caught staring.

Something between her legs starts to ache.

“Boo,” comes a husky voice from behind her. Arthie squeaks and jumps, clutching the side of a booth.

Yolanda cackles, a wide grin on her face, her eyes screwed up in delight. She’s Arthie’s height in heels. The pale yellow of her lingerie is bright against her skin.

“Yo-yo,” Arthie grins, relaxing. She fights the urge to straighten the cute bandanna around Yolanda’s neck. “Hi.”

“You made it!” Yolanda laughs, leaning over for a quick cheek brush. She’s really warm and a little damp, her rich perfume stronger than Arthie’s ever smelled it.

“Of course,” Arthie says, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. “This place is… wow.”

Yolanda laughs. “Come, let’s get you a drink.”

Arthie follows Yolanda to the bar on the other side of the stage.

“What do you want?” Yolanda asks while they wait for the bartender, a woman with teased blonde hair and pretty, smokey blue eyes.

“Oh, I don’t—” Arthie stutters.

Yolanda laughs. “You had sex on the beach last time we all went out, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Arthie says. Sounds accurate. Melrose ordered for her.

“Do you want to be a little more adventurous today?” Yolanda asks, raising an eyebrow.

The place between Arthie’s legs pangs. “Y-yeah, of course.”

“Perfect,” Yolanda grins. She turns to the bartender, suddenly saccharine-sweet. “Hey Robin, can my friend here have a midori sour?”

The bartender looks Arthie up and down critically before giving Yolanda a look.

“Pretty please?” Yolanda asks. “Ray still owes me a drink from last Thursday when I fixed the speakers.”

“Sure thing. Someone’ll bring it out to you when it’s done,” Robin says to Arthie, snapping a towel over her shoulder. She turns to Yolanda. “Don’t you have a set to finish?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Yolanda rolls her eyes. She places a gentle hand on Arthie’s waist and pulls it away. “Come, I want you watch me dance.”

The place between her legs pangs again, stronger this time. Arthie slides into a seat. She notices that everyone sitting at the stage has a pile of money in front of them, so she digs in her pocket for her wallet and lays out a $5 bill.

She doesn’t know how to do this.

Her whole body is thrumming.

This is _so_ cool.

Arthie keeps an eye out for a girl in yellow with a cloud of black hair while she works the floor, making her way over to the stage. Yolanda stops and poses, rubbing up against the banister and sending a sultry look Arthie’s way.

“Here’s your drink,” the girl who almost ran into Arthie earlier says, placing it onto the rim of the stage. It’s alarmingly green.

“Thanks!” Arthie chirps. She grabs a dollar and tries to hand it to the girl, who just sticks her hip out and waits until Arthie gets the memo, flushes, and slides the bill into her underwear.

With a critical stare at her drink, Arthie takes a sip. Oh.

Melon and citrus. She can dig it.

She takes another sip.

When she looks up, Yolanda is in front of her, holding onto the pole with one hand while she leans out over the stage.

From this angle, in this light, Arthie can see the ripples of her muscles as she moves: the clench of her abs, her thighs, her biceps. When she throws her head back, it makes the place between Arthie’s legs _ache_ to realize that Yolanda’s nipples are visible through the translucent material of her top.

They’re the same plum color as her lips, at least through the yellow mesh.

What would they feel like, if she touched them? Arthie pulls a maraschino cherry off a toothpick with her teeth.

Yolanda grips the pole in front of her and rolls her hips, bracing herself as she tucks her legs up. Building momentum and throwing her legs open, Yolanda twirls around in a large arc. She tucks her top ankle around the pole and uses it to slow her descent, gracefully rolling to the floor.

Whoa. _Whoa._

In a smooth motion, Yolanda slides up, grabs the pole with both hands, and lifts herself off the ground. Slotting the pole between her thighs, she spins around like it’s effortless. In a smooth motion, she flips over and pops herself into a bridge. Sliding onto the ground, Yolanda flicks her hair, arches her spine and rolls through a back-bend.

_Oh my god._

Arthie cannot contain how much she enjoys watching Yolanda, especially when Yolanda smiles at her and only her, eyes glowing warm and intense.

Mouth dry and lower stomach panging, Arthie takes small sips of her drink to cool herself down. It makes her head rush.

She _loves_ watching Yolanda dance.

She’s so talented.

“My set should be done soon, okay?” Yolanda promises when she checks in on her, stroking under Arthie’s chin as she crawls back onto the stage.

“Okay,” Arthie grins, settling back into her chair. She could watch Yolanda forever.

And then Arthie’s heart stops, because Yolanda turns and says: “Hey boss.”

Because _Sam_ is there. Why is Sam there? Sam is there! Sam isn’t supposed to be there! Sam is—

Sam is not her father.

They’re just two people, at a strip club.

“She’s _good_ ,” Arthie breathes as Yolanda slides down the pole upside-down, her leg bent behind her. “Right?”

“Oh man,” Sam laughs. “Did you two actually fall in love during that stupid dream ballet?”

Arthie tears her eyes away from the stage to stare at him. She scoffs a little. _Love?_

She can’t breathe.

_Love?_

“You did? Oh, that’s cute,” Sam chuckles.

_That would mean—_

“I don’t know what’s going on!” Arthie hisses, her palms sweating. She wipes them on her shorts.

_Is she allowed to fall in love with girls?_

Sam snorts knowingly. “Yeah.”

“I don’t!” Arthie protests. “She invited me here.”

“Okay,” Sam chortles.

“I… didn’t say no,” Arthie admits. She tangles her hands in her lap as Sam continues to laugh at her. Yolanda rescues her by sliding over and offering Sam a lapdance for “old time’s sake,” which he declines. He sticks a dollar in her top and instructs her to not take it off until he leaves.

“Boss, you’re no fun!” Yolanda calls after him, laughing. She turns and takes a running start to spin around the pole again, hooking her knee and leaning back, showing off her chest and taught belly. She slides down and stretches on the floor, graceful and flexible and lithe.

She’s enchanting. Arthie squirms and takes a large sip of her drink, clearing Sam from her mind. She’s here to watch Yolanda. Not… think about the ideas he just put in her head.

Yolanda’s dance attracts attention; the ring of dollars, many of them from Arthie, around the stage grows as she spins and flips and slides. When the music changes to something wordless and pounding, she grabs the pole with one hand and walks around it, smirking. She winks at Arthie and it’s like a lightning bolt.

Yolanda dances, sinuous, as she hooks her fingers under the band of her top. The crowd begins to whoop and cheer. Arthie’s mouth goes dry.

 _Fuck_.

Yolanda twists her top around her finger and drops it nearby. She adjusts her bandana and grins.

Arthie watches as she grabs the pole again, whipping herself around, utterly transfixed by the shift of her muscles uninterrupted by fabric. Arthie’s wrestled and danced with Yolanda. She knows she’s strong. But she never realized how _toned_ she is. How _exquisite._ She’s never wanted to touch her, to feel how she moves.

 _Oh_ god. _Oh god oh god oh god._

Arthie downs the rest of her drink and begins wrapping the straw tightly around her fingers.

Yolanda’s curls bounce a half-beat behind her as she dances. There’s a bright contrast between the lemon yellow of her stockings and the warm tawny brown of her skin that glows bronze with sweat. She’s just so _sleek_ , the curves of her arms and thighs smooth, the plane of her stomach tight, the muscles of her back and shoulders defined.

And—and even though Arthie isn’t _trying_ to stare, but also isn’t _not_ trying to stare, because Yolanda _invited_ her here to watch her dance—Arthie knows now that Yolanda’s breasts are small, her nipples puffy and a deep reddish-brown color, and that Yolanda winks when she catches Arthie staring.

Had the music not changed and another girl not strutted over to take Yolanda’s place, Arthie might never have looked away. With gyrating hips and sultry looks, Yolanda collects her cash and hops off the stage. Arthie puts a few dollars down for the freckled redhead, watches her for a little while and then stands up. She hovers awkwardly and looks around for Yolanda. Should she have followed her?

“Arthie,” Yolanda hisses, half tucked behind a thick red curtain. “Hey, over here.”

Arthie walks over, her face burning. “Hi,” she breathes.

“I’m gonna get ready, okay?” Yolanda says, hoping a little and nearly falling over. Arthie reaches out a hand to steady her. Her stomach lurches.

“Yeah,” Arthie says, nodding. “Sounds good.”

“And then we can go chill, okay?” Yolanda says, looking into Arthie’s eyes. Her eyeliner wings are dramatic and her expression is soft in the low light. “Just the two of us.”

Arthie smiles. “I’d really like that.”

It’s totally normal to feel giddy when someone as cool as Yolanda wants to spend alone time with her, right?

“Good,” Yolanda reaches up to brush her warm fingers against Arthie’s chin again. “God, you’re so cute.” 

Arthie flushes and looks down.

“Oh, have you eaten?” Yolanda asks. “I really do recommend the wings. They’re not half bad. You know. For strip club grub.”

“Uh, no,” Arthie stutters.

Yolanda ducks behind the curtain and then sticks her head out again. “It’ll be like, twenty minutes tops. I’ve gotta get cleaned up.”

“It’s fine,” Arthie laughs, relieved when Yolanda disappears and she can breathe again. “Don’t worry.”

“You’re the best!”

Arthie sits at the nearest booth, watching the other girls perform. It’s intense, being here. No one makes her feel like Yolanda does, like she’s being hypnotized, but she’s definitely _noticing_ things.

She doesn’t know how that makes her feel. Doesn’t… want to know.

A plate of wings appears without her having ordering them. When Arthie asks how much they cost the girl snorts. At least she lets Arthie tip her, sticking a dollar into her bra. She’s getting the hang of this place.

Yolanda emerges soon after, dressed in a low-cut black top and jeans.

“Ready to go?” She asks, holding out a hand for Arthie to take. Arthie wipes her hands on the tiny napkins provided and slides out from the booth. Yolanda lets go of her hand once Arthie stands, only taking it again once they’re outside of the club.

“So, what did you think?” Yolanda asks as they approach their cars, swinging their hands between them, her voice playful. “Be honest.”

“I _loved_ it,” Arthie breathes. “I mean. It was a little weird. I’ve never been to a place like that. But you’re _amazing_.”

Yolanda laughs, throaty and pleased, a sound that makes Arthie’s heart feel full.

“I’ll see you back at the motel?” Arthie asks, reluctantly pulling her hand away.

“Of course,” Yolanda says. “Race you there?”

“No?” Arthie says, alarmed. “Drive safe?”

Yolanda laughs again.

When Arthie arrives back at their room, Yolanda is already in shower. Arthie locks the door behind her, slips off her shoes and throws her purse on her bed. Yolanda’s show was… something else.

The sound of water running cuts out and, moments later, the hum of the hair dryer starts up. Arthie pads over to their cassette player and turns it on, letting whatever is in there play without listening to it. She doesn’t care, as long as it’s fast and loud enough to drown out her thoughts.

Arthie stands on the carpet in her socks, impatient and restless. She sniffs her sleeve, then her hair.

She’s a little smokey from sitting in the club, but it’s not offensive. Should she change?

Moving quickly, like she’s about to be caught and feeling silly for worrying about it, Arthie pulls open her dresser drawer. What’s left is exercise clothes. Patterned leotards and neon lycra and so many leg warmers.

She decides on a giant, colorful sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. Her hand brushes against something small and hard at the bottom of her drawer.

Smiling, she pulls it out. It’s a palm-sized red box that her parents sent her for her birthday. She rubs the gold letters embossed on the top.

 _Beautiful_ , it promises.

She sets it on the dresser while she changes.

Arthie eases the perfume bottle out of the box. She traces the sandy side of glass and then the scalloped edge of the stopper. She sprays the delicate, floral perfume on her wrists and rubs it behind her ears. She sprays it in the air and walks through the mist. It stings her nose.

Her mom says this perfume is for good girls. _You would never believe the scene it caused at Macy’s, Beta. There was a whole bridal party with a bride in a full dress and veil just to sell this perfume. She was so pretty. This is what Priya wears and she is getting married in June, you know._

_You will be such a pretty bride, Arthie._

Arthie sniffs her wrist.

_It’s just a perfume, Mom._

She puts the bottle back in the box and puts it away.

The dryer cuts out. Arthie can’t hear anything in the bathroom over the music. Still feeling jittery, Arthie digs in her bag for her lipgloss. She applies it in the small, oval mirror by the door. It sits over her lips, tacky and thick. She licks it off and then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.  

Sometimes Arthie’s palms get sweaty and her heart pangs like this before she wrestles. She used to feel this way before exams. There’s no reason for her nervous system to go haywire _now_ , though. Nothing’s even happening!

Sam was wrong. He's often wrong, about a lot of things.

Yolanda emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She’s traded the plum lipstick for her usual berry one, lined in burgundy. Her hair is damp, her curls just a little softer than usual. She looks younger, less seductive. More familiar. More like herself. Arthie’s eyes widen with the realization that she _knows_ Yolanda. Not the performer, the actress, the dancer, the wrestler. Yolanda Rivas, the person. Arthie fights a smile. She’s… special.

It’s nice feeling special.

Yolanda pauses and inhales. “You smell _really_ good,” she says, tilting her head to the side and inhaling again. “Is that new? I like it. It’s sweet.”

“Y-yeah,” Arthie stutters. She ducks around Yolanda to splash some water on her overheated cheeks, before she smiles so wide Yolanda thinks she’s weird.

When she turns around, Yolanda is tugging on her Converse. She’s wearing a pair of track pants and a light purple shirt with a stretched-out collar.

She’s so pretty it makes Arthie ache.

“I’ve been inside all day,” Yolanda says, throwing a spare blanket over her shoulder. “Come with me?”

Arthie slips on her shoes and follows Yolanda outside. They make their way behind the Dusty Spur and over to an air conditioning unit that’s tucked next to a wooden fence. The fence is thick enough that, if one balances on the platform it creates, they can pull themselves up onto the roof from there. The whole area reeks of stale cigarette smoke.

“Watch your step,” Yolanda warns, stepping around broken glass. She throws the blanket onto the roof and jumps onto the metal unit. She balances carefully on the fence, arms out at her sides, before hosting herself up, limber as a gymnast.

“C’mon,” Yolanda’s face peers over the edge of the roof, grinning with her tongue between her teeth. She sticks out her hand.  

Arthie climbs onto the air conditioning unit, nearly sliding off and clinging to it with her arms and legs like a flying squirrel. Once she’s on the fence Yolanda manages to pull her onto the roof, her grip strong and secure.

“See?” Yolanda says, her eyes sparkling. “I won’t let you fall.”

 _God._ Arthie’s chest burns. Why did Sam have to say anything? Now she’s thinking, and thinking is dangerous.

Yolanda slides her way over the front edge of the roof so that she’s overlooking the parking lot. She lays out the blanket and sits at an angle with one leg bent and the other straight out in front of her. Arthie sits cross-legged beside her. Even though their shoulders aren’t touching, their closeness is palpable.

The sky is throwing brilliant pinks and oranges across the sky like streaks of paint. The air is cool and dry. The only sounds are some crickets chirping and palm fronds rustling in the light breeze. It toys with the baby hairs that have escaped from Arthie’s clip.

“Do you think anyone’s going to notice us up here?” Arthie asks, looking out over the lot. She doesn’t see Melrose’s limo and it looks like some other cars are missing as well.

“Nah,” Yolanda shrugs. “They’re all doing their own thing; no one’s gonna notice us up here unless we bite ‘em in the ass.”

Arthie snorts. Yolanda smirks in the corner of her vision.

“A bunch of people went to see a movie, remember?” Yolanda adds. “It’s Keith and Cherry’s anniversary. They wanted to stay out late so they said everyone else could, too. Nobody’s gonna be back ‘til later.”

“Right,” Arthie says. The colors of the sky are bleeding together now, light periwinkles and deep blues creeping over the pinks and oranges.

Arthie’s hair cascades around her face like a curtain, tickling her cheeks.  _Wait, what?_

She swivels to look at Yolanda, who’s grinning mischievously and holding her clip. She tucks it into her pocket for safekeeping.

“C’mere,” Yolanda requests, reaching over and brushing some of Arthie’s hair over her shoulder. Heart fluttering, Arthie obliges. Yolanda gathers Arthie’s into a pile and coaxes her to rest her head in Yolanda’s lap.

“Are you tender-headed?” Yolanda asks.

“N-no,” Arthie answers, pulse loud in her ears.

“Is this okay?” Yolanda begins running her fingers through Arthie’s curls, working her hands through any knots she finds. Yolanda’s gentle, patiently teasing her way from the ends of Arthie’s hair to her roots.

“Yes,” Arthie says, her arms stiff at her sides. She desperately wants it to be. 

“You can chill out,” Yolanda says softly. Her forehead creases. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Arthie.”

Arthie takes a deep breath. “My mom and grandma used to brush my hair,” she explains.

Yolanda clicks her tongue. “Say no more. _El pelo malo_ was a thing in my house too.”

Arthie inhales through her nose and exhales through her mouth. She can trust Yolanda. Yolanda gets it. She relaxes her shoulders.

Yolanda laughs and buries her hands deeper, closer to Arthie’s scalp. She begins to tug lightly, sending tingles and shivers down Arthie’s entire body.

 _Whoa_.

“You still good?” Yolanda asks.

“Mmhmm,” Arthie says. She can’t speak now, all supine and defenseless.

_Did you two actually fall in love during that stupid dream ballet?_

“Do you wanna look at apartments with me after rehearsal tomorrow?” Yolanda asks.

“Y-yes,” Arthie pants. “I’d like that.”

What will living with Yolanda be like? Arthie hasn’t really pictured it yet, so caught up in preparing for their last show. Being roommates in the motel is like being at summer camp; they sleep in the same bedroom, listening to each other snore, impatiently knocking on the bathroom door in the morning before rehearsal. They have no privacy, but they have little need for it when their world is so insular.

But living in an apartment together? That’s… different. That’s real life. They’re _choosing_ to share their lives with each other instead of being forced to.

It feels wonderful and dangerous all at once, like standing on a beach before a thunderstorm.

Especially if… well. There are _feelings_ involved.

Was Arthie stupid for not recognizing them before?

Yolanda is the only lesbian she knows, so it’s not like Arthie can just _ask_ her.

“Thank you again for coming tonight,” Yolanda murmurs, distracting Arthie from her thoughts. She relaxes her grip and strokes Arthie’s hair instead. “You were such a good sport.”

“I’m happy I got to see you dance,” Arthie mumbles, her voice distant and strange. Is she dreaming? “You’re incredible.”

Yolanda chuckles, tucking a strand of hair behind Arthie’s ear. “And you’re sweet.”

“I’m glad they placed us together,” Arthie says, her eyes fluttering open. “I like being friends.”

“Me too,” Yolanda says. She licks her lips, flicking her pink tongue out and drawing it back in slowly.

They’re quiet for a while. The only movements are Yolanda’s hands. One absentmindedly plays with a piece of Arthie’s hair, letting it slip between her fingers like a ribbon. The other rests gently on her stomach, cradling her hand and rubbing her knuckles.

Arthie closes her eyes. Has anyone ever just… played with her hair before? Held her hand like this? Has she ever felt this cared for? Goosebumps break out all over Arthie’s neck and arms. She struggles to keep a neutral face. Can Yolanda see the havoc her skilled fingers wreck, practically written in neon lights on Arthie’s face as she glows red-hot? She could roll over and fall through the roof in embarrassment right now. She doesn’t know how to handle how precious Yolanda makes her feel.

Can boys make her feel that way? Would she even want that?

Arthie can’t _not_ tell her. Can’t let her feelings fester any longer when she feels like _this,_ when she’s aching for it to never stop and maybe even be more. Yolanda has to feel the same way. She _has_ to. How could she touch Arthie so tenderly if she doesn’t? Arthie will tell her, and then they can figure out whatever this crazy wonderful electricity between them is together.  

Arthie takes a shuddering breath.

“Yolanda?” She says, squinting up at her.

“Hmm?” Yolanda replies, smiling.

No. She can’t. She—it’s too real.

“Nevermind,” Arthie says, closing her eyes tight. “I forgot.”

She focuses on her breathing, trying to contain it, to slow it down, to stop herself from panicking.

“Hey,” Yolanda taps her cheek lightly. “Did you fall asleep? It’s getting dark. We should go inside.”

“Y-yeah,” Arthie mumbles, rolling off of Yolanda’s lap. Her head rushes and Yolanda grabs her shoulders to steady her.

“You okay?” Yolanda asks. She presses the back of her hand against Arthie’s forehead, a small frown on her face.

“Mmhmm,” Arthie says, twisting her mouth. Maybe another night she’ll have the courage to tell Yolanda how she feels. But right now everything is too raw, too fresh. Her nerves are frayed.

“Good,” Yolanda smiles, withdrawing her hand, and _damn_ it makes Arthie’s heart beat double time.

Yeah. She did fall in love during the dream ballet.

She’s not broken after all.

Just gay.


	8. rash decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! There's gonna be another chapter. And a sequel.
> 
> tw for this chapter: mention of drug use

“Hello Beta,” the voice over the phone crackles. “How are you doing?”

“Hi dad,” Arthie answers. She stops fighting to get her sock on one-handed and leans against her ankle instead.

Yolanda looks up from where she’s kneeling by her suitcase. _You okay?_ She mouths at Arthie. Arthie nods and Yolanda goes back to packing, sliding her folded shirts and pants into neat rows with quick, slender hands.

“I just wanted to let you know that Nani showed mommy and I your wrestling show,” Arthie’s father says.

It’s like she swallowed ice.

Her parents have… seen her?

“It was very different,” her father continues. He can be difficult to read in person, but it’s worse on the phone. “Very interesting. I do not like your character.”

“I don’t like my character either,” Arthie says, fiddling with a loose thread on the edge of her shorts. She winds it around her finger and snaps it off. “I’m going to be a different one soon.”

“But the show is almost over, yes?” Her dad says. “Wait, mommy is here.”

“Yes, dad,” Arthie sighs. She still can’t wrap her head around the show ending. As long as the TV executives are coming tonight, there’s a glimmer of hope. Arthie can’t think about an alternative. “Tonight is the last show for now. Hi mom.”

“Arthie.” The call rustles as her mom comes to the phone. “Are you well?”

Arthie tugs on the phone cord, her chest aching. She misses her parents, but ever since med school… she can't talk to them without being reminded about how much she's disappointing them.

All her life, she’d done everything to make her parents happy. And now she’s what? A gay—

The realization punctures her and she collapses in on herself, lungs gasping for air.

Oh _god_.

She—she hasn’t considered that. Her parents. How this will—how it will affect them. Devastate them.

It’s not enough she’s a med school dropout, is it?

 _Fuck_.

“Yes, mom,” Arthie says, her voice thick. “I’m really happy here.”

“Are you eating enough?”

Arthie laughs and wipes away an escaped tear. “Yes, mommy.”

“Nani misses you.”

“And I miss Nani,” Arthie says. She knows what that really means. “I miss you and dad too.”

“When are you coming home?” Her father asks.

“Later this week,” Arthie says. She takes a deep breath. “I’ll call you when I know the exact day.”

“Okay, good.” Her mom exhales loudly into the receiver. “Your room is all ready for you. Everything is just as you left it.”

“Oh, um,” Arthie says, wincing. Her heart kicks into overdrive. “I’m just coming for a visit. Like for dinner.”

“What do you mean?” Her dad says. “You said tonight is the last show. Then you are coming home.”

“A friend and I are getting an apartment together,” Arthie admits slowly, tapping her fingers against her ankle. “Some buyers are coming to the show, so we might film more soon.”

“No,” her dad says. “No, no no no. You’re not moving to an apartment.”

“We already found one,” Arthie says. “It’s in a good neighborhood, close to where she works.”

It is in a _decent_ neighborhood. But it is something they could afford, and the apartment is cute. The living room has space to dance in and lots of natural light. It is clean. The shower works.

Yolanda had put her hand gently on Arthie’s arm while they stood in the kitchen, looking out into the living room, and asked what she thought—asked if she thought it felt like home.

With Yolanda’s hand there, sending electric tingles up and down Arthie’s arm? Yeah. It did.

They’re signing the lease on Wednesday.

“What’s wrong with our home?” Her mom asks, her voice pitching upward. “Why be foolish with your money when you can live here for free?”

“I don’t want to,” Arthie says, swallowing. She always loses fights with her parents. “I’m going to live with my friend.”

“It’s not safe to live with a stranger,” her mother says. “How long have you known this girl?”

“She’s not a stranger!” Arthie retorts. _I’m in love with her_.

“The deadline to reapply to medical school is the 24th,” her father says. “I have called and they say you are still eligible. You can go back, Arthie. You need to prepare. You cannot be distracted. You’re already behind.”

Arthie bites her lower lip, her heart heavy. “I don’t want to go back, daddy. I told you this.”

“That’s ridiculous,” her father states. “You are going to have a career, Arthie. We have been patient, but your silly fun time is over now.”

“Wrestling isn’t silly,” Arthie says. She clenches the handset against her ear.

“It isn’t forever,” her mom points out. “What are you going to do when this is over?”

“I don’t know yet,” Arthie says. She refuses to think that far. “I’ll figure it out. I have money saved.”

“How will you pay rent, Arthie?” Her dad asks. “Expenses? For your car, gas? You need a _plan_.”

“Daddy, I have a show—can we talk about this later?” Arthie pleads. Her eyes burn.

“You are smarter than this, Arthie,” her mom says. “What happens when your show ends tonight, even if it starts again? When you get hurt? When you get old? When you’re a doctor, you have a _career_. You will need not to worry.”

“I don’t want to talk about this with you!” Arthie snaps. “You don’t control my life!”

“ _Do not talk to us that way,_ ” her mom says in Hindi.

“ _After everything we have done?_ ” Her dad says.

Her parents voices start overlapping, too fast for her to make out.

“Wait, wait, I can’t understand—” Arthie says. “It’s too fast, I don’t know what you’re saying, please slow down and stop yelling at me!”

Her parents start speaking faster and angrier.

“It’s not _my_ fault I’m not fluent!” Arthie snaps. “I know Ben is perfect but I’m not him!”

“ _You’re moving back home and are going back to med school_.”

“ _We want what is best for you!_ ”

“Say hi to Nani for me!” Arthie says, slamming the phone down onto the receiver. She pauses for a moment before covering her face with her hands. She takes shaky, shuddering breaths and wills herself not to cry.

“Your parents?” Yolanda asks. The bed dips as she sits down next to Arthie, her proximity warm and electric. “That sounded like it got nasty.”

Arthie sniffles.

“Hey,” Yolanda says, reaching out to touch Arthie’s shoulder. Her touch is gentle. It’s too kind for how raw Arthie feels right now. “You’re gonna be okay, Arthie.”

Arthie wipes her eyes furiously. “They just don’t _get_ it.”

The phone rings again, the tone shrill and distracting. Arthie and Yolanda ignore it.

“What did they want?” Yolanda asks when the phone stops ringing, scooting closer and rubbing Arthie’s shoulder with her thumb.

“They want me to move back home,” Arthie says, fiddling with her fingers. She avoids Yolanda’s gaze. “To go back to med school.”

“They didn’t like it when you said no, did they?” Yolanda asks, withdrawing her hand.

Arthie scoffs. “What makes you say that?” She picks at the skin by her pointer finger. “It’s always been like that. I had to do whatever they wanted me to until it became what I wanted to do, too. I guess I’m lucky because they care a lot about me, but they’re _really_ strict.”

Yolanda nods. “What changed?”

Arthie bounces a little on the bed and smiles shyly. “GLOW. Wrestling was the first thing I did for _me_.”

Yolanda returns her smile and it sends a secret thrill through Arthie’s chest.

“I’m never going back,” Arthie states. “I can’t. Now that I know—now that I know I’m never going to be what they want me to be.”

Arthie pulls the edges of her sweatshirt over her right hand so she can wipe away her tears.

“Hey, hey,” Yolanda soothes, scooting closer to rub her back. “This is a good thing, being your own person. It’s really brave.”

Arthie shakes her head, laughing up at the ceiling. “I don’t feel brave. I’m a disappointment.”

“You?” Yolanda snorts, her eyebrows arching. “Come on, Arthie. You’re really cool and _crazy_ smart. You’re a good person. And a great friend. You make make me laugh and push me to be a better wrestler. If your parents don’t appreciate all the good you are then they don’t deserve you.”

It’s like there’s a boulder on her chest. “They’re never going to accept me,” she whispers.

“Maybe not right now,” Yolanda says. “But they’re not used to you all confident. Not wanting to go to med school? Wanting to move out in what, your mid-twenties? These aren’t dealbreakers.”

Arthie sucks in a deep, shuddering breath.

She needs to tell her.

It’s the moment of truth.

“Yo-yo,” Arthie says, her voice strained. “Yolanda. I’m… I’m gay.”

Yolanda freezes. “Oh,” she says. “ _Oh_.”

Arthie pulls away and grabs her pillow, burying her face in it.

“Oh, Arthie,” Yolanda says, pulling Arthie’s pillow away. “Sweetie, you’re okay.”

Arthie shakes her head. Yolanda’s expression is gentle, her eyebrows tilted up just slightly, her eyes wide and sensitive.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says, biting her lip and fighting a smile. She takes a deep breath and continues, “Parents are… difficult. But you _never_ know how they are gonna react. And if they’re jerks, they’re wrong, not you. _Nothing_ about you is wrong.”

Arthie deflates. A few tears roll down her cheeks. “I don’t wanna disappoint them.”

“That’s their problem” Yolanda says. “Who you love is beautiful.”

Arthie sniffles, watery and gross.

“How long have you known?” Yolanda asks, brushing away Arthie’s tears with the back of her knuckles. Her hands are cool against Arthie’s overheated face.

“A few days,” Arthie says. The place between her legs twinges as she remembers Yolanda spinning around the pole, topless, glowing with sweat. Her chest aches with the memory of Yolanda’s hands tugging lightly on her hair, warm and tingly. Being around Yolanda makes her feel giddy and safe all at the same time.

And isn’t that being in love? All sorts of stupid contrasts.

“I, um. I could never understand the way girls talked about boys and romance and sex. I thought I was broken, Yo-yo. Then I met you and everything made sense. It all just… clicked.”

Yolanda’s eyes crinkle when she smiles.

“Sam asked if we fell in love during dance rehearsal,” Arthie admits.

Yolanda’s eyebrows raise. She withdraws her hands and fidgets with her gold thumb ring.

“I… told him I didn’t know,” Arthie says.

“That’s okay,” Yolanda says, looking at her lap.

Arthie draws her bottom lip between her teeth.  “I… think he might be right.”

Yolanda lifts her head up and stares at Arthie. 

“I’m pretty sure he’s right.”

Yolanda smiles shyly and opens her mouth to speak but there’s a pounding knock at the door that makes them both jump.

“It’s time to go!” Reggie’s voice booms. “Sam wants us there at noon!”

Yolanda brushes her fingers against Arthie’s cheek. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

“Oh—okay,” Arthie says, her pulse racing. The spot where Yolanda touched tingles. She feels it to make sure it’s real.

Yolanda slings her bag over her shoulder and throws Arthie hers. They walk to the parking lot and sit next to each other in the back of Melrose’s limo, hands and knees and thighs brushing, sending shivers up Arthie’s spine every time.

Can everyone see how her face is glowing? Is she extra giggly? She feels so stupid and obvious.  

It’s torture, not being able to talk to each other with an ocean of words to say between them. 

* * *

“So, like, everybody invited someone tonight, right?” Melrose asks, teasing her hair in the dim locker room mirror.

Arthie opens her mouth slightly as she applies medical tape to her forehead to keep the line of her glitter unibrow clean.

She’s doing a decent job of not staring at Yolanda. Of focusing on getting ready for the show like everything is fine and normal. She’s excited and a little nervous. Her jitters are entirely about their upcoming performance.

“My aunt is here,” Sheila mentions, eyeing her pink leotard in disgust. “She drove in from _San Diego_.”

“No way!” Reggie calls out. “My mom and stepdad are here from San Diego, too!”

Arthie swipes some Vaseline around her eyes and along her cheekbones.

“Some of our friends from the salon are here,” Dawn says, handing a clipboard over to Cherry.

“Oh, who?” Stacey asks, patting Debbie on the shoulder after fixing her lipstick. “I got confirmations from Margie, Linda, Barb, Ethel and Jeremy.”

“Ethel cancelled,” Dawn sighs, adjusting her bathrobe. “But Kathy said she could make it.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen Kathy in _ages_! Do you think she brought Rick?” Stacey asks, patting the side of her wig.

“Didn’t you hear?” Dawn gasps, handing Stacey a bobby pin. “She and Rick broke up! Now she’s dating Steve.”

Stacey’s eyes widen. “Margie must be _pissed_.”  

“My dad is here,” Carmen says, playing with the bottom of her of her Atlanta shirt as Cherry tucks the clipboard under her arm and checks the sun on her cheek. “He asked when the taping is and everything.”

“That’s great,” Cherry says. “You need more yellow.”

“We got you pink glitter for today,” Stacey says, setting the compact on the sink next to Arthie. “To match your costume. Here, let me do it.”

Arthie tilts her head up so Stacey can dab purple glitter along her eyebrows, trying not to squirm. It tickles.

“My ex-husband brought our _baby_ ,” Debbie says, shaking her head. She crosses out of Arthie’s line of sight. “Who does that? He’s using my son as a fucking olive branch. As though this makes him the good guy, or something. But it was really nice to see Randy. They aren’t going to stay for the match—I wouldn’t want them to stay for the match. God. Can you imagine having an _infant_  at a show?”

“Close your eyes,” Stacey instructs. “And breathe out. I’m setting this.”

Arthie obliges, covering her nose and mouth as Dawn sprays her face with hairspray. She winds up coughing anyway.

“Some of my friends are coming tonight,” Yolanda mentions, sliding up next to Arthie in the other mirror. “They’re _never_   gonna let me live this down.”

Arthie fumbles to close the cap of the glitter. Yolanda is close to her, oh god. How is she so normal about this all? Just picking her hair, checking her eyeliner.

Is her heart racing too?

They make eye contact in the mirror and Yolanda half-smiles. Arthie sends her one in return, slipping the glitter into her pocket. She shuffles over to her bag and pulls out her curling iron, unwinding the cord.

“Okay, Rhonda is officially in her dress,” Jenny says, coming into the room and wiping her hands on her legs. “This is _happening_! What are we talking about?”

“Do you have anyone coming to the show?” Carmen asks.

“My mom and sister!” Jenny bounces a little. “God, Amy is going to hate it. Why are eleven-year-olds such judgmental little bitches? Did we have this much attitude when we were eleven? I don’t remember being this much of a brat.”

“My parents want to meet all of you,” Melrose says, making grabby hands at Dawn until she walks over and begins gluing on her cheek rhinestones. “Something about being proud of me for sticking with a project and making friends? I told them to come early and I’m sorry about them in advance. They’re gonna ask a _lot_ of personal questions.”

“Hey, has anyone seen Ruth?” Cherry asks, tapping her clipboard and looking around. “Shouldn’t she be here by now?”

“You _know_ where she is,” Debbie says, squinting into her compact. Cherry purses her lips.

Tammé comes up and puts a warm hand on Arthie’s shoulder. “Do you have anyone coming?”

Arthie shakes her head. “I didn’t think to invite my parents,” she says, peeling the medical tape off her forehead. It's stiff from the glitter. “Plus, they’d have to find someone to watch the store, and my nani is the only one who likes wrestling, but she hates leaving the house, and she wouldn’t get the whole wedding thing…”

Tammé looks at her softly and she squirms. She—she _has_ friends. They’re just busy with med school. Everyone she wants to see her wrestle is already here.

“Is Ernest coming?"

“Oh, no,” Tammé says, adjusting her neon pink bra strap. “It’s finals and such a long drive. But I’m going to call him tonight and he’s going to watch the show with some of his college friends when it airs. You know he hasn’t missed an episode since he came here?”

Tammé beams.

“God, you guys, so sorry I’m late,” Ruth pants, hobbling her way through the locker room.

* * *

The melee is pure chaos. There are too many people to do any real wrestling. All they need to do is leave Debbie, Carmen, Sheila and the bouquet in the ring. Everything else is fair game.

Yolanda finds her with a sideways tackle that catches her off-guard. Her body is heavy against Arthie’s hips and legs. She’s warm and damp. She smells like sweat and something else. Something rich and earthy.

“Hey,” Yolanda says, as Arthie struggles to free herself. Her laughter is breathy as she rolls off, letting Arthie spring to her feet and put her into a headlock.

They tussle, barely fighting, ignoring the other wrestlers. Bash and Keith call out the names of their friends one by one. The ring is clearing out. It’s time.

Arthie throws Yolanda into the ropes. She clings, one-handed, as Arthie rushes over to grab her by the hair and the hip. She flips her over and pulls her up by the back.

And stares.

There’s that electric chemistry again.

She’s just so _pretty_.

Her high cheekbones, her glowing skin, how warm she is pressed against Arthie. Yolanda blinks up at her, startled by their proximity.

Arthie crashes their lips together.

Yolanda’s lips are stiff, waxy from her lipstick and a little chapped. When Arthie pulls away Yolanda stares at her, cross-eyed and slack-jawed.

The audience claps and cheers, and just like that the noise and lights of the wrestling match bombard Arthie.

“Infidel!” Arthie screams, shoving Yolanda away from her. She offers no resistance and falls limply away. Arthie leans over the ropes and stares after her.

They just _kissed_.

She  _kissed_ her.

Someone slams into Arthie from the back like a brick wall. Winded, Arthie lets herself fall, rolling out of the ring as the crowd hollers and whoops.

* * *

“And there’s nothing bigger than a live show in Vegas,” Ray says, his chest puffed out as he turns around to grin at everyone. Arthie frowns and gently probes the rope burn on her forearm.

GLOW is over. There is no way for another network to pick them up, because K-DTV owns their characters. Fuck Glen, the network execs and those awful contracts Sam pushed them to sign.

Because now Arthie has nothing.

A floor show in Vegas? It—it sounds fun.

It sounds miraculous.

It sounds ridiculous.

It’s too good to be true.

Is she allowed to get her hopes up?

Why won’t Yolanda look at her?

Sam nods.

“I like the way you think,” he says to Ray. “You, me, dinner? I want the name of your buddy, let’s get the ball rolling on this.”

Debbie clears her throat.

“And the other producers as well,” Sam adds. “Debbie, Bash, let’s go.”

“Um,” Bash says, running his hands together. “Can we maybe do this tomorrow? I’m kind of throwing a cast party, and…”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll fill you in later. Debbie, you in?”

“Absolutely,” Debbie says. She touches the side of her neck and scoffs. “Let me get ready. I’m not going to dinner in a pink leotard.”

Sam makes a rolling motion with his hand and she stalks over to the locker room. He turns to face the rest of the group and scratches his cheek. “The rest of you, um. We’ll reconvene tomorrow at 7 in the gym and I’ll update you. Don’t… don’t get your hopes up, okay? This is still a long shot.”

Arthie drops her shoulders. GLOW is as good as over. All their hard work—their passion—and no one’s even going to remember them in six months.

“Great job, all of you!” Ray says, giving them a thumbs up as Sam leads him to the corner of the gym. “Seriously, I love you guys!”

“Okay!” Bash shouts. Arthie glances a look at Yolanda, who’s staring intently at her nails. She hadn’t even _looked_ at Arthie since the match ended. “So, afterparty at my place, yes? Who’s coming? It’s half cast party, half wedding reception.”

“Oh, Bash,” Rhonda says, waving her hand and giggling. “You shouldn’t have.”

“It’s our wedding reception now, honey!” Bash says, patting Rhonda on the shoulder. She winces. Bash turns to face everyone. “Now, Florian still isn’t, um. Back yet. From the trip he’s taking. The extended trip. So it’s not the usual _Bash Howard Extravaganza_. But it’ll still be fun! There’s food, alcohol,” he lowers his voice, “ _drugs_. Enough to keep us going for days. C’mon, you guys know you want to! We have a successful show to celebrate!”

“I think it’s a good idea!” Ruth says, eyeing Sam and Ray talking by the door. “Our show was amazing, you guys.”

“The show got _canceled_ ,” Carmen says, kicking the chair in front of her. “There’s no way to know if this whole Vegas thing will work. I don’t feel like celebrating.”

“But we pulled it off _together_ ,” Bash says. “Please, Carmen? For me.”

Carmen looks up at him, her eyebrows drawn. “Okay. Fine.”

Melrose claps her hands. “Well with that _ringing_ endorsement I’m ready to fucking party.”

In the locker room, Arthie slides next to Yolanda, playing with the stretchy material of her discarded costume.

“Bash’s parties are really fun.”

Yolanda shrugs, not looking up from where she’s tying her shoe.

“There’s so much to do,” Arthie continues. “He lives in this gorgeous mansion in Malibu. There’s a pool _and_ a hot tub! Arcade games that you can play for free. And—and expensive art. He’s got a whole costume closet!”

Yolanda checks her eyeliner in a compact.

“There’s like, _unlimited_ cereal.”

Yolanda laughs and Arthie’s heart jolts. “I’ll see you there, Arthie.”

She hitches her bag over her shoulder and exits the locker room. Arthie smooths out her leotard, pressing her fingers against the magenta and gold ruffles.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

Bash’s house doesn’t look different, but it smells different. Chemical, astringent. Sterile.

She asks him about it and he snaps at her that nothing has changed. But she’d have remembered his house smelling like industrial cleaning products. Like a hospital.

This party doesn’t have cereal, either. Arthie glumly takes a napkin full of Cheetos and a can of beer and retreats to a recliner where she can watch everyone.  

She’s not in the mood to party.

She pops the Cheetos into her mouth one-by-one as she watches her friends. Melrose and Jenny rip down a sign that says “Congratulations, Britannica and Cupcake!” and run with it to the firepit as Cherry chases after them.

Bash scurries around, an anxious host, with Rhonda trailing after him. Arthie thinks she hears him yell “Florian would know what to do!” but she can’t be sure. She does see Rhonda trudge down the hall a short while later, already drunk and clumsy in her heavy dress.

Someone finds the stereo and the music blasts, too loud to think.

“Arthie!” Dawn shouts. “Come dance with us!”

Arthie laughs and joins them, closing her eyes and bouncing. When she opens them she catches sight of Carmen and Yolanda in the corner, a small baggie in Yolanda’s hand.

Arthie’s stomach drops.

It shouldn’t—it shouldn’t bother her to see Yolanda place something under her tongue. To close her eyes, her eyelashes casting shadows over her cheekbones.

She catches Arthie’s eye and then looks away.

Arthie leaves the party without saying goodbye. 

* * *

Arthie wakes up and groans. She’s gross and sticky. Her mouth is sour. Everything hurts.

Yolanda’s bed is empty.

Arthie curls into a ball and clutches her head.

Maybe she’ll feel better when she showers.

The room tilts when Arthie sits up. She’s bone-deep exhausted and sore. The wrestling yesterday hadn’t even been intense—nothing was technical—nor had she even partied hard enough to warrant needing a ride home, but the crushing news of the show’s cancellation is weighing her down. Her exhaustion is emotional.

Yolanda isn’t there when Arthie gets out of the shower.

The kiss was stupid. It was impulsive. But—but Yolanda likes her back! She said they were going to talk about it.

When will Yolanda be back?

Arthie runs out to Dunkin Donuts and hurries back to the motel. She turns on the TV and waits for Yolanda to return.

She said they’d talk.

A few hours pass. Arthie fidgets, picking her nails and biting her lips to shreds. She repacks her suitcase.

Finally, the motel room door cracks open. Yolanda walks in, wearing giant sunglasses and last night’s clothes.

“ _Shit_ ,” she says, clutching her chest. She throws her sunglasses onto her bed, slips off her shoes and bends to search through her suitcase.

“I got breakfast,” Arthie tells her, gesturing to the doughnut box on the desk.

“I already ate,” Yolanda says. She grabs some clothes and breezes into the bathroom. The pipes creak as the water starts up.

Arthie twists her hands together, chewing her lip, her palms sweaty and her heart thundering. The water cuts out and the dryer starts.

“You said we’d talk,” Arthie says when Yolanda leaves the bathroom, her dirty clothes bundled under her arm. “Can we? Why are you ignoring me?”

Yolanda purses her lips. “I don’t want to talk.”

“But you promised,” Arthie says. “Please?”

Yolanda sighs and shakes her head, throwing her clothes on top of her suitcase. She closes the door firmly, the sound echoing in the small motel room. Arthie gasps, her lungs constricting.

She crumples, buries her face in her hands, and begins to sob. 


	9. possibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the draft for the final chapter hit a word count that was half of what had been published so far, I figured I might as well post the super shiny put together first bit as its own thing while I finalize the last couple of scenes.

“Okay, so,” Sam sighs. He rubs the sandpaper stubble on his cheek, the scratching sound audible in the quiet of the gym. “Here’s the plan. Ray and I are flying to Las Vegas tomorrow to meet his buddies with the casino. It’s just like he said yesterday: he’s got stake in a club that’s looking for a headliner. They’ve got this, uh—Debbie, help me out here—”

Sam gestures to Debbie with his leather portfolio. She clears her throat and steps beside him, pulling at the bottom of her cream-colored silk blouse to straighten it.

“He’s a comedian?” Debbie says, touching her fingers to her forehead and then fanning them out. “A bad one. He’s losing them money—”

“I believe the term Ray used was _hemorrhaging_ ,” Sam interrupts, bringing the portfolio to the front of his stomach and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

 _Ew, gross_. Arthie grimaces.

“The owners are looking for something new,” Debbie continues with a squinty-eyed look at Sam. “Something different.” She pulls out a notebook from her back pocket and flips through it. “They want something theatrical. Show-stopping. Innovative. _Entertaining_. Ray said entertaining like, three times.”

Bash, who’s sitting with his arm around Rhonda on the bottom row of the bleachers, turns so he can grin up at the group. “See? It’s like I told Sam and Debbie earlier! You guys are _perfect_.”

“There’s potential,” Sam admits, tucking some graying hair behind his ear. “I’m not gonna lie. There’s potential.”

Debbie’s stony face leaves Arthie feeling less than hopeful.

Sam clears his throat. “The venue is this hotel and casino owned by these fellows named, um—”

He snaps his fingers in Debbie’s direction until she jumps in.

“Milton Wells and Claude Rousseau are co-owners of The Bluebird,” Debbie says. She purses her lips. “You might want to learn their names if you’re meeting with them tomorrow.”

She half-mumbles it, loud enough that Arthie can hear.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says, waving his hand nonchalantly. He scratches his cheek again. “I’ll learn ‘em on the plane.”

“So…” Ruth says, raising one hand and wobbling unsteadily from her spot next to Arthie. With a frown, Arthie tugs her back onto the bench. “What’s the rest of you guys’ plan?”

A sour look flickers over Debbie’s face, so quick Arthie almost doesn’t catch it. Sam turns to Ruth, his eyebrows raised as if he suddenly realized she’s there.

“Right,” he says, coughing a little. He sniffles and rubs his nose. “I’m bringing those… guys... Milt and whoever… the GLOW tapes. The wrestling, and the other stuff too. The variety show and shit, your title sequence. Let’s see if we can get them to fall in love with you all. Shouldn’t be hard, right? I know at least half of your names now.”

Sam pauses to chuckle, the grin sliding off his face when the comment lands flat.

“Right,” Sam says, smoothing down his mustache. “Assuming they like what they see, we’ll negotiate filming them and the other investors a stage preview. If they like that, they’ll fly out here in person in _eh_ , four weeks? Five weeks? For a dress rehearsal.”

Ruth sighs and rubs where her cast meets her shin. Arthie pats her forearm. Four or five weeks and she’ll be just out of the cast, covered in ring rust and fresh on her barely-healed ankle.

“I just want to wrestle,” Ruth whispers.

“I will be calling Debbie after the meeting tomorrow,” Sam continues, pointing in Debbie’s general direction. “She will update you all and let you know if we’re good to go to prepare for a Vegas show.”

“And if we’re not?” Carmen asks. The bleacher creaks as she scoots to the edge of her seat. Her normally soft voice is thick, as if she’s holding back tears. Considering that she’s sitting as far away from Bash and Rhonda as possible, it’s likely not entirely because she’s broken-hearted about GLOW’s fate.

Sam sighs. “Look. Bash and I talked. We extended your stay at the Dusty Spur for another five days If this whole Vegas thing falls through, it’s not the end of the world. You go get plastered together, cry into each other’s shoulders, and _move on_.”

Arthie bites her bottom lip and looks down at her lap, picking at the scab on her forearm. GLOW ending _feels_ like the end of the world. She still has no options, no desire to do anything else, no place to go but back home with her parents. And with Yolanda continuing to be upset, sitting behind and to the left of her and staring blankly ahead, refusing to make eye contact let alone talk to her while they were waiting for the meeting to start...

Sam clears his throat. “I’ll be honest, this whole thing is a long shot. The money and the interest are there, but a lot can go wrong. Please don’t bank everything on this.”

“I don’t want to do anything else,” Arthie mumbles. She clenches her fists and watches the skin pull taught over her knuckles.

Wrestling makes her feel strong. In control. Part of something greater than herself. She doesn’t want to just give that up.

“I understand if any of you have other opportunities,” Sam says. “If you want to take jobs with more security. Just… walk out now, if you’re going to. Don’t waste our resources and time.”

Sam pauses and looks at each person in turn. The fluorescent lights of the gym reflect off of his glasses, so he cups his hand over his forehead and squints at them, his expression grotesque and unreadable. He could be thinking anything. _Gah_. Arthie shudders.

“Right,” Sam says when nobody moves. “No one? I don’t understand it, but I appreciate your dedication and loyalty.”

His expression warms a bit, the lines on his cheeks crinkling when he chuckles.

“Now, Vegas. It'd be a tight schedule and a lot of hard work. Require a lot of stamina. But it’s doable,” Sam says, tapping his fingers against the portfolio. “There’s a slim shot in hell it’ll actually happen, and that’s always what we’ve worked with. We had an amazing season and could have had _at least_ one more if fucking Glen and K-DTV didn’t screw us over. Assuming all goes well these next few weeks, we can keep going. In some capacity. It’s not ideal, but it’s a start."

Ruth opens her mouth and then snaps it closed, leaning back with a short, frustrated grunt.

“So, we wait for your call tomorrow,” Debbie says, closing her eyes and waving her hand in front of her like she’s gently ushering away a butterfly. “And then what?

“And then you get started,” Sam says. He shifts his weight to one leg and squints at the group. “You need to come up with a plot, a show. Something that translates to stage. Ruth!”

Ruth lurches in her seat, snapping to attention. Arthie grabs her hips again. “Yes?”

“Ruth has stage experience,” Sam says to the group, gesturing to her. “Live theater is different than TV. Ruth knows what she’s talking about. She’s got an eye for this stuff. She’s the director while I’m gone. Listen to her.”

Sam looks pointedly at Debbie, who scoffs and looks away. Ruth turns to Arthie and _beams_. Her nose and cheeks flush pink and her bright blue eyes light up.  

“You’ll be great,” Arthie murmurs. _If there’s a show to create at all_.

Cherry raises her hand. “What’s the timeline for this?”

“If everything goes well?” Sam asks. “I don’t know. We’re on the bus to Vegas in six weeks?”

“And we’ll get paid?” Cherry continues, carefully enunciating each word.

Sam scrunches his forehead. “Yes, Cherry. That’s one of the things I’m going to Vegas tomorrow to negotiate. To test the waters for.”

“How much?”

“What?”

“How much are you negotiating for us? Some of us,” Cherry looks down at the bottom row, where Rhonda, Reggie and Melrose are sitting, “pull more than our weight.”

Sam sighs and rubs his forehead. “I promise you there will be individual contracts for each of you. _If_ the plan goes through. We can talk about the details then. Happy?”

Cherry folds her arms and raises an eyebrow. “I guess.”

She doesn’t sound happy.

“Great,” Sam says, gesturing to the door with a flick of his hand. “Good meeting, everyone.”

Sam puts the portfolio between his knees so he can pull a box of cigarettes out from his shirt pocket. He fumbles for a lighter and then looks up, his eyebrows drawing together when he realizes that everyone is still watching him.

“You’re… dismissed,” Sam grunts, waving his hand again. He sticks the cigarette in his mouth. 

Arthie helps Ruth to her feet as Tammé comes to half-carry her down the stairs.

“I can do it!” Ruth protests, nearly falling over as Sheila props her crutches under her armpits. “I’m _fine_ , honestly.”

“Four more weeks, right honey?” Tammé asks.

Ruth sighs, deflating over the sides of her crutches. “Yeah.”

Arthie sits back down on the bleachers, watching as everyone files out of the gym. Dawn, Stacey, Reggie, Melrose and Jenny exit together, speaking in hushed, overlapping voices, their usual buoyancy gone. Rhonda pulls towards them, but she’s unwilling to let go of Bash’s arm. Bash is standing at the base of the stairs up to the director’s booth, looking up at Sam and Debbie like a lost puppy.

Carmen, Cherry and Keith are standing off to the side, watching Sam and Debbie. Cherry’s arms are crossed and she does most of the speaking, ducking her head and lowering her voice whenever Keith puts his hand protectively on her waist.

Arthie cranes her neck, looking for Yolanda. She’d waited all afternoon for her to come back to the motel so that they could talk. She’d counted the cracks in their ceiling (five), named the water stains (Rabbit, Duck, Single Mitten and Half-Eaten Poptart), and painted her toenails. Twice.

Where _is_ she?

She can’t avoid her forever, can she?

Arthie sighs and drops her head, looking sadly down at her aquamarine toes.

There’s a padding, crashing sound as someone bounds up the bleacher steps. The bench squeaks as they slide next to her.

“Hey,” Yolanda says with an unfamiliar coolness.

Arthie lifts her head, bracing her cheek against her hand. “Hi.”

It stings, to have Yolanda physically near but closed off, her expression impassive.

Yolanda sighs and leans against her knees. She pulls the edges of her letter jacket around her like a blanket.

“I spoke to Ruth. She says the kiss wasn't caught on camera.”

Yolanda looks over at the director’s booth, where Sam is standing in one corner, speaking loud enough that Arthie can kind of hear him through the glass. Bash is sitting at the desk, fuming, and Debbie is brooding in the other corner. Rhonda, who is now sitting at the bottom of the stairs, gives them a little wave when she catches their eye. Arthie waves back.

“Oh." Arthie taps her shoe a few times against the metal stand of the bleacher, unsure of what to say. The sound echoes in the gym, loud and tinny. She doesn’t like this weighty silence between them. The electric sparks that that used to tingle pleasantly now feel like livewires, like something high voltage. Like they can hurt.

And it’s all Arthie’s fault.

“In case you were worried,” Yolanda continues. She’s squinting at Arthie now, watching her. Dissecting her. After a moment, she sighs and stands up, sliding her hands into her jacket pockets.

“Wait, Yo-yo,” Arthie calls, reaching. If Yolanda would just sit, they could _talk_ , and make things right—

“I’ll catch you later, Arthie,” Yolanda says, sliding away from Arthie’s grasp.

“But,” Arthie protests. She swallows. “Can we talk, please?”

Yolanda tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. She stares at Arthie and shakes her head, her curls bobbing.

“Not right now.”

Arthie’s chest aches. She presses her knuckles against her eyes as Yolanda jogs her way down the stairs and out of the gym. The slam of the door feels final. Finite.

Hope blooms in Arthie’s chest when she hears someone make their way up the stands and sit beside her, because maybe she was wrong. Maybe Yolanda has come back.

Her hope is snuffed out when she smells sickly-sweet flowers and Aqua Net.

“Hello,” Rhonda says. Arthie lifts her head. “Having trouble?”

 _She’s a lesbian, you know_ , echos in Arthie’s head. The sneer, the self-righteousness.

“No,” Arthie lies. “She just wanted to know if I had her keys. We’re good.”

“Oh,” Rhonda says, slumping a little. She twists a ring around her fourth finger, the gemstone blindingly catching the light.

“Is that your ring?” Arthie gasps, wanting to distract her. She holds out her hand.

“Yeah,” Rhonda giggles, placing her hand delicately in Arthie’s. “Bash bought it for me this morning, after we got our marriage license. It’s official now, Arthie. We're married.”

The words are as strange on Rhonda’s tongue as they are in Arthie’s ears.

“This is beautiful,” Arthie says, running her nail around the diamond, admiring the cut of the stone. It’s dazzling. Brilliant. Has Arthie ever seen a real diamond up close? She doesn’t think so. It feels too expensive to touch with her bare hand. “Congratulations.”

Rhonda shrugs, twisting her mouth. When Arthie looks closer, she notices the rings of exhaustion under Rhonda’s eyes are dark, almost bruised-looking. Her skin is chalky from the amount of powder she’s wearing. “Thanks.”

“You okay?” Arthie asks, nudging Rhonda with her shoulder. Rhonda laughs a little, looking up into the director’s booth where Debbie is sternly lecturing an equally shame-faced Bash and Sam.

“Everything’s different than I thought it would be,” Rhonda admits in a soft, ragged whisper, frayed like the edges of her ruffled once-white shirt. “I just wanted to stay here, you know? I never loved Cupcake, and he was in love with Britannica. The character. Not the real me. All I needed to do was pretend to like him until I had a green card. But now, with Bash…”

“Got more than you bargained for, huh?” Arthie asks, tapping her chin. Bash is speaking now, arms open at his sides, while Sam and Debbie ignore him to spit fire at each other.

“He says he’s in love with me,” Rhonda admits, biting down on her bottom lip. Arthie turns to look at her: the sharp, point of her jaw, the stiff arch of her bangs, the deep crease of between her eyebrows, the sallow curve of her cheeks. 

“Oh,” Arthie says, her eyes widening. “Do you… not believe him, or…?”

Rhonda laughs, rolling a section of auburn hair between her fingers and then letting it spring free. “I like that he’s trying. He’s sweet. Earnest. I think he means well—he doesn’t have to try at all. He got me a _ring_ , for Christ’s sake. He's introducing me to his _mother_ tomorrow. Properly, this time.”

Arthie blinks, remembering an white lady with a plastic smile fuming in a fancy gown. “Oh, man. Good luck.”

Rhonda falls forward, cradling her head in her hands. “Thanks. I’m gonna need it. She hates literally _everything_ about me.”

Arthie pulls Rhonda close, pressing her face into her shoulder. “But you didn’t marry her, right? Bash married _you_.”

Rhonda laughs again, lighter this time. “You’re a good friend, Arthie,” Rhonda says. She looks up and wipes under her eyes. “You’re usually so quiet, but what you say matters. You should speak up more.”

Arthie scowls. She’s not quiet. She’s never been quiet. She spent her childhood getting chided for being _moody_ and _insolent_ and having a face with a direct line to her heart.

She’s a lot of things, but she’s not _quiet_. It’s not her fault nobody listens.

“Bash is treating you okay, right?" Arthie asks, because Bash can be moody, too. She cradles her own palm and traces the crease from the heel of her hand to the web between her thumb and forefinger. Is that her heart line? Her lifeline?

“Oh, yes,” Rhonda is quick to assure her. “Nothing has changed. We’re still the same people, which is why everything is so… awkward. He’s a terrible kisser. He won't even let me see him shirtless.”

At Arthie’s scandalized look, Rhonda giggles. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Arthie promises, biting her lip and grinning.

The door to the director’s booth slams open. Bash trots down the stairs, followed by Sam and Debbie, who pauses to look at Rhonda and Arthie sitting on the bleachers with a critical gaze.

“Hey honey.” Bash smiles when he reaches the bottom of the bleachers. “Did you wait for me?”

“Well, you’re my ride, so...” Rhonda laughs awkwardly, pushing off of Arthie’s shoulder to stand up. “I’m glad we talked, Arthie. Take care.”

“Bye,” Arthie calls, waving a little as Rhonda joins her husband— _God_ , she thinks, _that feels weird to say_ —and links their arms as they exit the gym.

“Arthie,” Sam says, pausing to squint up at her. “Did you seriously wait here to ask me about your character?”

“What?” Arthie sputters. Between coming out, the _kiss_ , finding out GLOW was cancelled, her fight with Yolanda, talking to Rhonda, and not wanting to go back to the motel just to sit there in silence, her issues with Beirut are the furthest thing from her mind. “No, I was just—”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “I don’t even know if there’s _going_ to be a show. Don’t you see I have a million more important things on my mind? You don’t know when to quit, do you? You can be a real brat sometimes.”

“I wasn’t here for you—” Arthie begins, prickling with shame and indignation.

“Save it,” Sam grunts, waving his arms in frustration. He heads for the gym door. “I don’t care.”

“I wasn’t here to ask you about that,” Arthie calls to the closed door. “I was just _here_.”

“Don’t mind him,” Debbie says, gliding down the stairs. “He’s just worried about tomorrow and doesn’t know how to express anything that isn’t anger.”

Debbie’s expression is blank, like she's been carved from marble. 

Arthie glares at the gym door. "That was  _mean_."

“Yeah, well," Debbie sighs. "He still has to live with himself, so you're the real winner of that altercation."

Arthie hides a smile by ducking her head, the weight in her chest easing. 

"Are you, uh, going anywhere?” Debbie asks, playing with the hair behind her ear. “We could get dinner, maybe, if you want.”

The briefest, most insecure hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Debbie’s mouth.

Arthie’s never seen a genuine one from her. She returns it nonetheless.

“Sure. That sounds good.”

Arthie stands up and straightens her skirt. Debbie’s smile grows a little warmer.

It’s strange on her face. Almost frightening.

Swinging her leather jacket over her shoulder, Debbie leads Arthie into the dark parking lot. The only sounds are the hum of the outdoor lights and the asphalt crunching under their shoes.

Debbie’s never wanted to hang out with _her_. GLOW is a little like high school sometimes, where sudden attention from the popular girls has less-than-friendly intentions, but it’s not like Arthie has anything Debbie wants. She’s just a wrestler, a heel, and nobody’s favorite like Zoya or Welfare Queen. She's the standby person people have to win against so they can fight better people the next week. Debbie is _the_ face of the show, their shining star. She negotiated herself a producer's contract and, if the rumors are true, makes nearly double what Arthie does. She has more air time, exclusive interviews, better costumes, better _everything_.

So what does she want with Arthie now?

“The wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round—” Blasts from the car stereo when Debbie turns the key in the ignition. She fights to turn it off, mashing buttons and laughing self-consciously.

“Shit, shit, sorry,” Debbie giggles awkwardly, covering her uncomfortable smile with her hand. “I have a tape of Randy’s in here so I know what to sing when he gets upset.”

“Do you not know the words to ‘The Wheels on The Bus’?” Arthie asks, picking at the edge of her seatbelt. She doesn’t mean for it to sound so insulting.

“It’s his favorite,” Debbie snaps. “There are ten verses. He knows when you’re wrong. Don’t ever have kids.”

Arthie worries her bottom lip between her teeth. It’s not like she _wanted_ kids, particularly, before—her parents wanted her to have children, after she got married and was stable in her career—but knowing now that she probably won’t… she isn’t sure how she feels about it, yet.

Relieved, mostly.

Debbie sighs, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. “A diner sound good?"

“Yeah,” Arthie says, pressing lightly on her stomach. She’s actually quite hungry. “Do you know of any around here?”

“No,” Debbie admits, throwing her car into gear and pulling out of the parking lot. “My favorite is close to where I live. They’re open until 1 a.m., they serve breakfast all day, and their fries are never greasy.”

“Sounds great,” Arthie shrugs. She’s stuck in a car with Debbie now. It’s an _adventure_. She hasn't broken any ankles recently. There's an 80% chance Arthie makes it home tonight. “Do they have milkshakes? I like milkshakes.”

Debbie shoots her a look. “I guess?”

“Cool,” Arthie nods, looking out of the window. The streetlights whiz by, dizzyingly fast. Arthie pretends that she’s a skating out there, pulled along parallel by the car, jumping from dimly lit curb to bench to shrub.

The silence sits between them, leaden and uncomfortable. They’re basically strangers. Does Debbie regret inviting her? Is she shaken up from the fight with Sam and Bash? Is Arthie supposed to… say something?

“He shouldn’t have told you all that,” Debbie mutters, not taking her eyes off the road. “That’s what I was… we were talking about, back there. Getting your hopes up. We don’t know how that meeting is going to go tomorrow. Sam should have waited.”

“It’s okay,” Arthie says, playing with the end of her white knit belt. “I’d rather know than be kept in the dark. He needed to tell us something.”

Debbie squints. “He doesn’t even know their names. What kind of first impression does he think he’s going to make if he can’t remember their _names_? He’s probably off getting high right now. He’s going to blow this for all of us.”

“Why aren’t you going?” Arthie asks, watching as Debbie’s fine hair catches the light from a passing streetlamp. It’s so blonde it’s reflective.

“I don’t want to leave my son,” Debbie admits, coming to a short, squeaking stop at a red light. Arthie grips the handle on her door. “I’ve been gone so much, and I promised I'd take him to the park tomorrow.”

“The flight is short, isn’t it?” Arthie asks. “Maybe you could be gone for part of the day and take him to the park after? He's... a baby.”

Debbie sighs. “I’ll think about it. I just… I feel like a bad mother, all the time. I’m never there. Even when I’m there I’m not _there_ , you know? I’m busy preparing for a show or making calls about the show or just _thinking_ about a fucking show. Mark gets accolades for changing a diaper or picking him up from daycare, but I forget him _one time_ and now I'm the worst mother of the year. The ladies at daycare _hate_ me, I just know it.”

The car lurches forward. Arthie’s grips the handle tighter.

“My mom wasn’t around when I was little,” Arthie mentions carefully. “She worked. Lots of long hours. My nani—my grandma—was supposed to watch me, but she’s really old… I spent a lot of time alone. And I turned out fine. I know my mom loves me. Cares about me.”

Debbie turns to look at Arthie, her green eyes almost yellow in the light. They stare at each other for a brief moment, and for the first time Arthie feels like Debbie sees her.

“Thanks,” Debbie says. “That actually makes me feel better. Tammé said something… similar, about herself and her son.”

“And he goes to Stanford,” Arthie reminds her. Meanwhile, she dropped out of medical school to become a professional female wrestler for a show that got cancelled after one season.

“Are you and your mom close?” Debbie asks, merging onto the highway. Her blinker clicks like a metronome. “We’ve never really… talked.”

“Yep,” Arthie lies, her voice smooth and casual. Debbie doesn’t need details. And until a few months ago, it was the truth.

Debbie’s shoulders ease as she speeds down the highway. They're quiet as she drives.

“Do you think the Vegas show is going to happen?” Arthie asks, letting go of the door handle and rubbing the prickly spot by her knee that she missed while shaving.

Debbie clenches her jaw and exhales through her nose.

“Ray seems to think so,” she says. “But we don’t know these people. They’re rich and old and own a hotel and casino in _Las Vegas_. Who knows if we’re good enough for that? They don’t know us! They’d be taking a huge risk, and if the act they currently have is losing them a ton of money… I don’t know. We might not be the right kind of risk. The safe, we’re-definitely-going-to-make-money-off-of-this kind.”

“Sam is bringing our tapes,” Arthie reminds her. “We have a pretty big following. And Ray loves us.”

“Ray owns a chain of _strip clubs_ ,” Debbie says. “He’s a _small_ business owner. And he’s kind of sleazy, no offense. Just because Sam and _Yolanda_ have their heads up his ass doesn’t mean he knows jack shit about what casino tycoons will invest in.”

At Arthie’s silence, Debbie winces. “Sorry. I know that Yolanda is your friend. Or your lover. Whatever.”

Arthie freezes, her heart skipping a beat and then starting again doubletime. Her armpits prickle. Her palms grow clammy. 

“Um?” Arthie squeaks, high in her throat. She clenches her fist so tight that her knuckles crack.

“Whoa,” Debbie scoffs, her forehead creasing. She glances at Arthie. “Sorry, was this not, like, public knowledge?”

Arthie stares, her pulse rushing in her ears. What does Debbie know? Does _everyone_ know? Oh _god_. Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh—

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” Debbie murmurs. “It’s really sweet, Arthie. God, I’d _kill_ to have someone look at me like that.”

She licks her lips and chuckles softly, looking wistfully at the empty road ahead of her.

Arthie’s only _just_ realized her own feelings. How long has Debbie known? Sam seemed to know something, too. Did Rhonda know today, when she asked Arthie if she was okay? Do Cherry and Carmen and Stacey and Melrose know? Does _everyone_ know?

It's like she's been walking around topless, thinking she was covered up, and no one thought to tell her.

Is she really that obvious?

Arthie hangs her head. She’s so foolish. And now she’s mortified, sitting here in Debbie’s car, burning a hole into her seat from how hot she’s suddenly running.

Oh, god, can Debbie smell her fear sweat? 

Debbie reaches over and pats her knee, the touch foreign and awkward. The car swerves a little. “You kissed her in front of a giant crowd, Arthie. In front of cameras. What did you think we would think?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Arthie admits. She tangles her fingers in her lap, pulling them tight. “All I saw was her.”

“Oh,” Debbie says. “Wait, was that your first…?”

Arthie nods, her throat closing up, her shame doubling. “She won’t talk to me.”

“Well, yeah,” Debbie says, giving Arthie a confused, sidelong glance that makes her wither even more. “You outed her. In front of a whole bunch of people. I’d be pretty upset, if I were her.”

Arthie drops her head to her hands and releases a shuddering breath. _Fuck_.

“Had you talked about things, like, at all? Is she even a… does she like… you know. Women?”

Arthie wraps her arms around her her chest. “Oh. Um. Yeah. She came out to everyone her first week.”

“Oh,” Debbie says. Her voice is neutral, her face impassive again. “I guess I… missed that.”

“I guess.”

“I’ve been busy,” Debbie snaps. “I’ve been in every match, plus producing, plus drama with Sam and Bash, plus finalizing my divorce, plus caring for my _infant_ son _and_ living in fucking _Pasadena_.”

Arthie frowns. “I don’t… care.”

Debbie’s face hardens, the lines on her forehead puckering.

“I mean,” Arthie says. “You aren’t obligated to be our friend.”

Debbie’s chin wobbles faintly as she slows down to pay a toll, fumbling in her purse for change.

“Back to you,” Debbie says as she speeds up again. “Are you? You know.”

Arthie presses her fingers to her lips, a jolt running through her chest. Answering this question feels dangerous. “I think so.”

“What’s it like?” Debbie’s eyes flicker in her direction.

“I don’t know,” Arthie admits. “I don’t know what anything else feels like. But it feels right. Like I just discovered a box of feelings I’m supposed to have but thought I didn’t.”

“Huh.”

Arthie’s heart is beating so fast she can’t breathe. She’s just _come out_. To _Debbie_. Who’s all sorts of vindictive and stuck up and sometimes just _mean_.

Mainly to Ruth, but still. She just gave Debbie cannon fodder.

“Does Yolanda know how you feel?”

_Yo-yo. Yolanda. I’m… I’m gay._

_We’ll talk later, okay?_

“Yeah," Arthie says, her hands shaking slightly. She presses them against her thighs. "I told her, um. That I like girls. And we said we were gonna talk, about, you know. Us. She seemed excited. But then we had to get ready for the finale.”

“That’s a good sign,” Debbie says. “You didn’t exactly _misread_ the situation. You’ve apologized, right?”

Arthie steadies herself by gripping the edge of her seat and the handle of the door. Has she? She’s barely spoken to Yolanda.

“No,” Arthie admits. “I will. When I get home.”

“Good,” Debbie says, hitting the accelerator. “Saying you’re sorry when you’re wrong is… good. It moves things forward.”

The muscle in her jaw ripples when she clenches it.

“And she’s a fucking _stripper_ , Arthie. It’s not like she’s some fucking uptight, virginal Mormon. She’s probably done worse.”

Arthie rolls her left wrist, testing the new bruise. She’ll need to ice it later.

“We’re almost there,” Debbie informs her, taking a ramp off the highway. “Sorry to drive you so out of the way.”

“It’s okay,” Arthie shrugs, feigning nonchalance even as her heartbeat refuses to stabilize. “There wasn’t much traffic this time of night.”

“Small blessings,” Debbie says with the faintest hint of an accent.

The diner is small and retro, like something out of the 50’s. Debbie leads her to a booth and a glassy-eyed waitress slaps a pair of menus down on the table. Arthie and Debbie share a judgmental, raised-eyebrow look. 

“I’d like…” Arthie says when the waitress returns. She bounces a little on the vinyl seat. “The house special with pancakes, but no bacon. And can I get a strawberry milkshake, please?”

“How do you want your eggs?”

“Sunny side." 

“Potatoes?”

“Home fries, please.”

The waitress raises her eyebrows and scribbles Arthie’s order on her pad.

“Thank you!”

“I’ll have a classic burger,” Debbie says. “Single patty. No cheese. A Diet Coke and… oh, I should get a salad, but I had a bad day and just need some fries. Can you bring a to-go box with the food, please?”

“Coming right up,” the waitress sighs, turning on her heel.

Debbie glares at Arthie.

“I hate you,” she announces, gesturing at Arthie’s entire being. “That is _unfair_.”

Arthie looks at the table. Did she do something wrong? “I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Debbie grumbles, sitting back in her chair. “You’d think, because of all the exercise we get, I’d _lose_ weight, but _no_.”

“Muscle weighs more than fat,” Arthie responds automatically. “You’ve bulked up.”

Debbie scoffs. “Great. Now I get to be buff Debbie, the untouchable ice queen who can crush a man’s head between her thighs.”

“You look great,” Arthie assures her. “Like a Barbie doll.”

Debbie laughs, ducking her head. “Why thank you,” she drawls.

“Plus some guys are really into head-crushing.”

Debbie snorts, looking up to grin at Arthie. Her smile reaches her eyes.

“I’m not ready for the show to be over,” Arthie blurts out.

“Me too,” Debbie agrees, struggling to free a paper napkin from the dispenser. She begins to tear it up. “I just… I don’t know if I can leave Randy to go to Vegas. He’s so young. But wrestling is… it’s everything, besides him. Sometimes it’s... more than him.”

Arthie licks her lips, hesitant to step out of line and incur Debbie’s wrath. “You and your ex-husband have joint custody, right?”

Debbie nods. “Uh. We will, soon. We're working on it.”

“You wouldn’t see him certain days, anyways.”

Debbie’s eyes widen. “ _Oh_.”

Arthie grins, scrunching up her nose. “Plus, if we make as much money as Ray says we will, you could afford to fly from Vegas to LA all the time.”

Debbie grips the edge of the table, leaning forward to stare up at Arthie. “Oh my god.”

Arthie wiggles her eyebrows.

Debbie throws back her head, her cornsilk hair falling with her. “ _Fuck_ , Arthie. _You’re_ the genius. How did fucking _Rhonda_ wind up with that role?”

_She’s white._

“I’m too busy playing an Arab terrorist, remember?” Arthie snaps, Bash’s words still bitter on her tongue. “I’m _Indian_ , for the record.”

Debbie squints at her. “You should change that.”

Arthie rolls her eyes. “I’ve been trying. I hate my character.”

“I’ll help you,” Debbie promises. “I—I’ll talk to Sam, okay?”

Arthie grins, bouncing forward on her seat. “Thanks.”

It can’t hurt, to have someone as powerful as Debbie on her side.

As weird as her sudden warmth is.

And as quick as it might turn. 

Debbie nods. “I’m going to call my ex-husband now. And then Sam, to tell him I’m coming tomorrow. And then, fuck, I guess I'm calling a travel agent.”

“Okay,” Arthie says. She waits for Debbie to get up and then calls after her: “I’m going to steal your fries so I can dip them in my milkshake.”

Debbie swivels around so she can grimace at Arthie, her entire body recoiling. “I take back what I said about helping you  _monster_. You  _foreigner_ who will never learn our ways, who was sent to destroy all that is good and holy about our great nation.”

Arthie winks and dumps the jelly display onto the table so she can make a pyramid while she waits for their food.


	10. velvet kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to review! It really brightens my day.

The cab ride back to the Dusty Spur is quiet. Anxiety churns Arthie's stomach as she bounces along the highway, overfull and a little queasy, contemplating ways to apologize to Yolanda.

At least Debbie paid for her taxi, since she drove her all the way out to Pasadena.

What should Arthie do when she gets back to the motel? Apologize right off the bat?

Demand Yolanda sit and speak with her?

What if Yolanda’s already asleep?

Is she overthinking things?

How can she make things okay again?

She just wants things to be okay again.

Arthie tips the driver and sneaks back to her room under the cover of shadows. It’s pointless to hide now—their curfew ended when the show did. But she can’t just _stroll_ to her room like it’s broad daylight. What if she gets in trouble?

She won’t, but what if she does?

Arthie takes a deep breath to steady herself before she opens their door. It creaks on its hinges as she slides it open, loudly announcing her entrance. Yolanda startles at the sound and sits up in bed, pressing a hand to her heart. She’s already in pajamas, gray shorts and a scarlet top with a string collar that shows off her neck and shoulders. She’s bare-faced, young and just a little rosy from being scrubbed clean.

“Yolanda,” Arthie blurts out, locking the door behind her and pressing up against it. “I’m sorry.”

Yolanda scrambles to turn the TV off, watching Arthie with careful, guarded eyes.

“I’m _really_ sorry.”

Yolanda sits down on the edge of the bed. She frowns, staring at Arthie as if waiting for her to speak.

“I messed up and it won’t happen again,” Arthie says. “Please don’t be so mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Yolanda says, her forehead wrinkling. “It’s chill. I don’t get angry.”

Squinting, Arthie studies Yolanda, from the tight set of her jaw to the rigid line of her shoulders.

She looks mad.

“What are you, then?” Arthie asks. She cranes her neck forward to see her better in the dim light.

Yolanda blinks at her, startled.

“I’m,” she swallows. “I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Arthie slides down against the door, wrapping her arms around her legs.

“I didn’t like being kissed like that,” she says, freeing a diamond-shaped earring from a tangle of dark, curly hair. “It’s not cool.”

“Right,” Arthie breathes. She remembers the warning the lady at the club gave her, about harassing and fondling the dancers. “I’m sorry, Yolanda.”

Yolanda looks down at her hands.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Arthie continues. She’s humbled. Humiliated. “It was stupid and impulsive. I’m sorry.”

Yolanda flinches. She purses her lips and looks at Arthie with glassy eyes.

“You told me you like girls,” she finally says, her voice shaking. She twists the fake ruby ring around her pointer finger.

“I do,” Arthie swallows, the still-unfamiliar words catching in her throat, “like girls. I like _you_.”

“Is this a joke to you?” Yolanda demands.

“What?” Arthie freezes.

“We said we were gonna talk about it,” Yolanda blurts out. “To, you know. Figure things out. Take things slow. This—what I’m feeling for you—isn’t a joke to me.”

“It isn’t a joke to me, either.” Arthie is quick to assure her.

Yolanda jerks back. Her hands flip over, palms raised. “Then why would you kiss me like that? In front of hundreds of people, in front of _cameras_?”

“What?” Arthie repeats, lifting her head.

“I can take a lot of things.” The words come out in a pressed, shaky rush. “But being reduced to some _experiment_ to you? That’s not right. I’m done with that life. And from _you_ of all people? You said… I thought we were...”

Yolanda trails off. Her head falls forward, slumping in defeat. If Arthie didn’t know better, she’d say her shoulders were shaking.

Realization hits Arthie like a bodyslam. _Oh_. Yolanda thinks the kiss was a trick. Something Arthie did on purpose to hurt her.

_Oh. Oh no._

Arthie unfolds herself and crawls away from the door. “No, Yolanda. God. That wasn’t...”

Yolanda shrinks away.

“I just wanted to kiss you,” Arthie confesses, pausing by her legs. “Everything was so intense and you looked really pretty. I like wrestling with you. Spending time with you. I pulled you close, and—and you looked into my eyes. I could feel your heartbeat. I’d thought about kissing you before, and then I just… did.”

Yolanda lifts her head. Her eyes flicker in the low light. What does she see? The truth? An apology?

Is there hope?

There has to be.

They’re having a conversation now.

“I _really_ like you, Yo-yo,” Arthie breathes, risking the nickname and crawling forward so she can lay her hands against Yolanda’s knees. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Yolanda tilts her head up, blinking against tears. “Arthie…” she warns.

Worried and needing the contact, Arthie presses her face against the inside of Yolanda’s knee.

“I’m sorry,” Arthie says again. “For putting you in this position. And making you feel like you didn’t matter.”

Yolanda releases a shuddery breath. “Okay.”

“I won’t do it again,” Arthie promises. “Kiss you, like that.”

Yolanda chuckles wetly, wiping under her eyes.

“Are we okay?” Arthie asks, her heart pounding. “Can we be?”

Yolanda swallows, her throat working. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

The skin-to-skin contact is suddenly awkward. Arthie sticks a little when she pulls away.

“I’m not used to this,” Yolanda admits, playing with her rings again. “Talking.”

Arthie nods, unsure of what to say. If their conversation is over or not.

“I’m… gonna get ready for bed now,” she says when Yolanda doesn’t look up.

Arthie takes her time showering. She changes into her red checkered nightgown, flosses, brushes her teeth and runs a little coconut oil through her hair. When she exits the bathroom, Yolanda is already under the covers.

Arthie turns out the light, plunging them into darkness.

They’re quiet for a long while. There’s no way Arthie can sleep, but she’s going to try, first by counting sheep and then by listing wrestling moves.

“I’m glad we talked.” Yolanda’s voice cuts through the darkness, sudden and sandpaper rough. 

“Yeah,” Arthie breathes. “Goodnight, Yolanda.” 

“‘Night Arthie.”

* * *

Yolanda is gone when Arthie wakes up. She's not disappointed, exactly. The talk last night ended well, but Arthie was foolish to expect things to go back to normal immediately.

And what did she expect? Bedhead and a bleary smile?

Arthie stumbles to the bathroom, washes her face, slips on her shoes, grabs her mug, and makes her way to the office.  

“Good morning, Arthie,” Tammé greets her at the counter, wearing a bathrobe and silk headscarf. She takes a sip from her Stanford mug.

“Morning,” Arthie answers, her voice scratchy. She pours herself a cup of weak coffee, grabs a waxy apple off the counter and turns the corner to the dining area.

Jenny, Ruth and Stacey are clustered at the table nearest the TV, intent on whatever cartoon is playing. Carmen is on one end of the couch, reading through a stack of mail.

And Yolanda is tucked into the other corner of the couch, nursing a coffee and flipping through a magazine. She smiles politely when she sees Arthie, throwing the magazine onto an end table and waving her over.

“I saved you a muffin,” Yolanda says, sliding the napkin-wrapped bundle out from behind her back. “Good ‘ol Greg only brought eight this morning. Can you _believe_ him? What an ass.”

Arthie unwraps the pastry. It’s a little squished, the blueberries more an idea than substance, but maybe it's the sign she was hoping for that things are gonna be alright.

“Thank you,” Arthie says, shyly playing with the edge of the muffin wrapper. She’s unable to fight her smile.

“Don’t mention it,” Yolanda says, patting the space on the couch next to her.

Arthie sits, curling her legs up under her.

“What’s the plan for today?” Arthie asks, breaking off a piece of the muffin. She pops it into her mouth.

“Tammé said Debbie is gonna call her once Sam lets her know,” Yolanda says. Arthie passes her the muffin and she pinches off a piece, dropping it into her mouth like she’s a baby bird. “So she’s stuck here until that call, and nobody wants to leave the Glowtel in, like, solidarity. So… pool party?”

Arthie nods, teasing off a burned piece of muffin off of the wrapper. “Sounds good. Gah, I’m so impatient!”

Yolanda crosses her arms and rubs them, frowning slightly. “Yeah, same.”

* * *

It’s Sheila who breaks the news, running up to Melrose and Yolanda at full speed, her pale eyes wild. Arthie, who hears the commotion while underwater, sticks her head head up and swims to the edge of the pool.

“They’re interested!” Sheila yells, nearly pitching forward into a pool chair. “The buyers? They want to see more!”

Everything is quiet for a split-second before the group erupts, everyone shouting over each other in excitement. Arthie clambors out of the pool as Dawn, Stacey, Reggie and Jenny join the circle.

Is it true? The world is still on its axis, waiting for Sheila to continue.

“Who told you?” Reggie demands. She towers over Sheila.

Sheila rubs her hands on her corset. “Um,” she says, “I need some air.”

Everyone takes a step back. Arthie wraps a towel around her chest and slides between Stacey and Jenny.

“I think this is what happened,” Sheila begins. “Sam called Ruth and Debbie called Tammé, who told her to call Ruth. Then Ruth called Cherry. Carmen was in Cherry’s room, and she passed me on her way to call Rhonda. And now I’m here.”

“So it’s like, double official?” Jenny says, sliding her sunglasses on top of her head. “We’ve got confirmations from Sam _and_ Debbie?”

“Uh, yeah.” Sheila blinks.

“It’s official, you guys!” Ruth yells, hobbling out to the pool. “The casino owners say they want to see a preview for a live show!”

“Awesome,” Arthie breathes. She bounces on the balls of her feet, feeling lighter than she has in days. Her anxiety about where to go and what to do is dissipating—for the time being, her future is crystallizing in front of her.

It’s like she’s been treading in deep water and her feet have finally touched the bottom.

“What did Sam say?” Yolanda asks, shading her eyes and squinting against the late afternoon sun.

“Well,” Ruth says, tucking some hair behind her ear. “He and Debbie had very different stories, but you know how that is. Also, I think Debbie might be there? Anyway!”

“Wait, wait!” Dawn says. “We’re not all here.”

Ruth pauses, swaying on her crutch. “True. Let’s, um. Meet in five minutes in…?”

She glances at Sheila.

“Melrose and my room,” Jenny finishes.

Melrose nods, snapping a piece of gum. Sheila sighs in relief.

“Great,” Ruth says. “I’ll go get Cherry. Arthie, can you get Carmen? And Reggie, can you get Tammé? I think that’s everyone. We’ll reconvene in five minutes, in Jenny and Melrose’s room.”

“And after our little meeting,” Melrose adds, sticking a finger up. “You all need to get your asses in gear, because we’re going out to celebrate!”

Arthie tightens her towel and heads towards Carmen's room. Her smile is so broad it hurts her cheeks.

“Wait,” Ruth calls from behind her. “Has anyone told Bash?”

* * *

Most of her friends are already at the club when Arthie arrives, Yolanda included. She’s sharp in a pair of parachute pants and a black bomber jacket, her lemon yellow shirt a bright contrast against her skin. Is Arthie allowed to notice how pretty she is? Because she does, and she notices how Yolanda’s face lights up when she sees Arthie, too. Yolanda ducks and swerves around people to meet Arthie at the bar, her own drink in hand.

“So is that like, your thing now?” Yolanda asks when the bartender hands Arthie a midori sour. It’s electric green under the blacklight.  

Arthie shrugs. Yolanda’s nearness is distracting and a little dangerous, like an open flame near her elbow. The fire is contained, for now, but that doesn’t mean she can just _ignore_ how stiff and jumpy her presence makes her feel.

“Cheers,” Yolanda says, tipping her glass forward for Arthie to toast.

“Cheers,” Arthie responds, _clinking_ her drink against Yolanda’s.

Yolanda’s smile is slow and easy as she raises her glass in Arthie’s direction. How can she be so effortlessly cool about everything? Arthie is ready to burst. She snort-laughs into her glass, the alcohol burning her mouth and nose.

 _Fuck_. 

“We’re going to Vegas!” Melrose yells from behind her. Arthie turns to see Stacey waving them over. Yolanda bounces and grabs Arthie’s wrist, pulling her towards their friends.

Just a touch leaves Arthie breathless. She’s _doomed_.

“Dance with us,” Stacey pleads, beckoning Yolanda. “Come, you’re so good. Do that thing with your shoulders!”

Yolanda turns to look at Arthie. She squeezes her wrist and then slides her way onto the dancefloor, grapevining her way into the circle of their friends. The music is hot and electric as Yolanda begins to dance, light on her toes, snapping her head and shoulders to the beat.

Sheila, Ruth and Russell are standing at a nearby table. Arthie joins them, never taking her eyes off of Yolanda. She can’t help it. She’s never seen anyone sink into music like this before. Unabashed, Yolanda starts a roll that moves through her entire body, her spine rippling like a wave. When the music changes she keeps up with the rhythm, spinning and twisting as the others bounce around her.

She’s the best dancer there, hands down. Arthie’s not biased.

When Yolanda catches Arthie looking, she winks, throws her hands above her head, and slides down slowly.

Arthie’s mouth goes dry.

 _Whoa_.

When the song changes to something slower, Yolanda shimmies over to Arthie, grinning widely.

“Dance with me?” She asks, holding out a fingerless-gloved hand.

“Yeah,” Arthie breathes, her heart jolting. Yolanda’s smile glows under the blacklight.

“Sheila, you too,” Yolanda says, turning to look at her. “You’re way too stiff for a night like this. We’re _celebrating_.”

“I don’t dance,” Sheila states, backing away, her nostrils flaring like a cornered animal.

“Everybody dances,” Yolanda says, unperturbed.

“I need to stay here with Ruth,” Sheila says.

“Actually, um,” Ruth says, biting her lip. “Russell and I… um. Why don’t you… if you want to…”

“Come, Sheila,” Arthie pleads, holding out her free hand. “Don’t make me suffer alone.”

Not that dancing with Yolanda will be _suffering_ by any stretch of her imagination.

Sheila sighs and pushes off from the table, following Arthie and Yolanda to the dance floor. It only takes a few minutes for a faint smile to work its way across her face.

Arthie does her best to keep up in the thick of things. Dancing is about letting go and feeling the music with her body. She closes her eyes and twists, rolling her hips and shoulders. With a cheer, Melrose dances with her. Then Stacey, then Reggie.

Then Yolanda grinds against her back and Arthie stops being able to think.

They slot together like a single curve, the bend of Arthie’s ass cradled by Yolanda’s hips, her back pressed solidly against her front. Her hands flutter to her waist.

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.

Yolanda is hot and firm, sharp with perfume and sweat. The roll of her hips send shockwaves throughout Arthie’s body, localizing between her legs.

Oh _god_.

Arthie shudders, falling out of rhythm. Yolanda, taking pity on her, backs off. With a smile, she rolls her shoulders and grins until Arthie slides back into sync with her, matching her step for step. Something in Yolanda’s eyes pulls Arthie in, dark and magnetic.

A change in music breaks her spell. Yolanda reaches over to touch her cheek, sending electric sparks along the length of her face, before turning and dancing with Jenny. Arthie swoons, winded.

“What are you here for?” A young man with a strong jaw and a shirt with a popped collar asks. “A bachelorette party, or something?”

“Our show’s continuing!” Dawn cheers, looping her arms around his neck. “What’s your name? You’re cute.”

The man coughs and blushes, placing his hand on the small of Dawn’s back.

“Nothing’s been signed,” Cherry shouts over the music, flicking her braids over her shoulder. “We don’t know how it’s going to go.”

Melrose, clutching a drink the length of her forearm, slurs: “Shut up, spoilsport.”

It does not go over well.

Arthie, still woozy, dances away from them, heading back to the table. Ruth and Russell are now deeply making out, Russell's tongue clearly in Ruth's mouth.

Maybe she can just grab her drink and—

“Oh, hey Arthie,” Ruth says, putting her hand on Russell’s shoulder and pushing him away. “How’s the dance floor?”

Arthie glances over, but she can’t see anything through the throng of people.

“Melrose said something that Cherry didn’t like,” she shrugs, taking a sip of her now watered-down drink. Her head pounds. “Nothing new.”

Ruth sighs.

“I’m gonna grab another beer,” Russell says, sliding out of Ruth’s embrace. “You want one, right babe? ...Arthie?”

“I’m good,” Arthie says. “Thanks.”

Yolanda brings a round of ice water to the table a few minutes later. She passes one to Arthie, who takes a sip. And then another, and then another. The water is clear and cold, refreshing on her tongue. It lifts her headache almost instantly.

“Thanks,” Arthie yells. “I was feeling kinda sick.”

“No problem,” Yolanda says, passing waters off to Ruth and Carmen, who arrived only a few minutes before. “I care about my team. Don’t want anyone getting too drunk.”

Yolanda stares for a moment at Reggie and Jenny, who are demonstrating wrestling moves that don’t involve the sticky floor, and then glances back at Arthie. She shrugs, tucking the drink tray under her arm before bringing it back to the bartender.

A while later, just as the noise and crowd and stench of the club are starting to overwhelm her, there’s a gentle pressure on Arthie’s arm.

“Ready to head back?” Yolanda asks, sliding close so Arthie can hear her over the music.

Arthie jumps, a bolt of lightning rushing through her. “Y-yeah.”

“How’d you get here?” Yolanda asks, patting her pockets.

“Sheila drove me,” Arthie answers.

Yolanda nods, clutching her keys. “Cool. I drove, if you wanna ride back with me.”

Arthie’s heart skips a beat. Alone, in a car, with Yolanda?

“Sh-sure.”

Yolanda’s smile is broad and makes her eyes crinkle.

They walk to Yolanda’s car together. Their shoulders brush, little bolts of electricity sparking between them. The air outside is crisp and cool compared to the claustrophobic heaviness of the club. It’s too quiet compared to the dull pounding Arthie can still hear coming from inside.

Yolanda’s car smells like cigarette smoke and old cloth seats. It’s messy, too. Arthie waits by the open door while Yolanda clears the front seat for her, throwing lingerie and shoes and makeup to the back.

Arthie’s wrestling notebook is open on the seat. Arthie cranes her neck, trying to see what page it’s on in the dim light. She can’t tell for certain, but she thinks she sees the large, overlapping picture she drew of the crossbody block. Yolanda tugs the notebook to her and snaps it closed, holding it out for Arthie to take.

“This was a lifesaver,” she says as Arthie slides into the seat. Her foot bumps awkwardly against the baseball bat Yolanda keeps on the passenger side floor. “Seriously, _thank you_.”

“No problem,” Arthie chirps, feeling the edges of the notebook. It’s worn, but in good shape—Yolanda treated it kindly. “I’m glad I could help.”

Yolanda’s chuckle is warm and affectionate. She pulls off her fingerless gloves and tucks them into her pocket, before putting the car in gear and pulling out of the parking lot. In a fluid movement, she turns on the radio and lets her hand settle, palm up, near the gear shift. Patient and unassuming, but still: an invitation.

They said it out loud yesterday. They like each other. Yolanda has feelings for her. Which is—oh god. Flattering and overwhelming and wonderful and a little scary.

Arthie’s crush is about to converge on something… physical. More than just their dance tonight. It’s not just a concept anymore. It’s _real._ They talked about _feelings_ last night.

Arthie studies Yolanda's profile as she drives, illuminated in flashes by streetlights and passing cars. The cloud of her hair is lush and full, the arch of her cowlick high. Her nose is cute, all round and soft. She flicks her tongue out and Arthie watches, mesmerized, as her tongue moistens her plush lower lip.

Yolanda glances at Arthie. She grins, her smile lighting up the car.

_Busted._

Her hand is still there, waiting.

Arthie’s stomach twists. Can she? Brave and unsure, she floats her hand over to Yolanda’s. She slots their fingers together and clasps their palms. The light of a passing car illuminates Yolanda’s small, victorious smile.

Arthie gently bobs her head in time to the tune on the radio, trying to ignore the sparks shooting up her arm. Yolanda’s hand is hot and a little sticky from sweat. She twists their hands so she can rub her thumb over Arthie’s knuckles.

It's a sweet gesture that leaves Arthie breathless.

“I had fun tonight,” Yolanda says casually, her eyes on the road ahead.

“Yeah,” Arthie says. Any other words she could think of have withered on her tongue.

The tingling, palpable tension is starting to break, like the first streaks of lightning and peals of thunder in a storm.

Arthie is not sure what it will feel like when it hits in earnest. She's not sure if she’s ready. But she’s sure that she _wants_ it, because the looks Yolanda gives her? With sly grins and teasing eyes? They make Arthie ache and want to get drenched in the rain.

Although they let go of each other once Yolanda parks, their hands find each other again by the time they cross under the Dusty Spur's archway.

It’s not even cold, but Arthie is trembling.

“All right,” Yolanda sighs when she opens their door, stepping aside so Arthie can brush by her.

Arthie stays quiet as she toes out of her shoes, throwing her head back as the feeling returns to her feet. “Oh, _yes_.”

Yolanda laughs.

“You want dibs on the bathroom?” She asks, leaning casually up against the desk.

Arthie nods.  

When she exits, she and Yolanda bump shoulders.

“Oh!” Arthie says. “Sorry.”

“My bad,” Yolanda replies, rubbing her shoulder and squinting up at Arthie. “Wait, you have some glitter on your face. Hang on, I’ll get it.”

Yolanda rests the side of her hand gently against Arthie’s neck.

They’re standing so close that Arthie can see the way Yolanda’s cat eyes are fading and her lips are rosy brown where her lipstick has worn off. The air smells sweat-sharp and musky, Yolanda’s perfume having worn off after dancing for hours. The heat of her body draws Arthie in, encouraging her to press closer.

 _Oh no_.

She gently scrapes her nail along Arthie’s cheek, her hand cool and dry against Arthie’s now-overheated face.

“You’re good,” she says, looking up into Arthie’s eyes.

Is she?

She can’t breathe.

Yolanda doesn’t move. She’s smiling this little, adoring smile that Arthie wants to be able to tuck into her pocket for later.

Leaning closer, Yolanda’s eyes flicker down. She adjusts the angle of her hand, pressing gently against Arthie’s bottom lip.

“Is this okay?” She whispers.

“Y-yeah,” Arthie stutters. She tilts her head a bit, pressing into Yolanda’s hand.

Is it?

She’s breathless and aching for more.

Yolanda moves her thumb, catching Arthie’s lip. She cradles her face. They’re so close Arthie feels Yolanda’s breath on her face, warm and damp. Their lips are nearly touching.

“Can I kiss you?”

Arthie’s heart stops.

Yolanda is looking at her, earnest and imploring and maybe even a little nervous. Her hand on Arthie’s jaw is trembling.

Is that what she wants?

She definitely doesn’t want Yolanda to _stop_. In what world would she say no?

“Please,” Arthie whispers.

Yolanda’s other hand slides to the back of her neck, tilting her head down so she can reach.

Arthie’s heart is beating so fast she can’t breathe.

What if she’s a bad kisser? What if she has bad breath? What if this is all a really elaborate dream?

Yolanda, with a small, excited smile on her face, quiets Arthie’s racing anxieties by pressing their lips together for the first time.

Oh.

Yolanda’s mouth is soft and yielding, warm and a little chapped. She pulls back with a quiet _smack_ noise and adjusts her angle so their noses won’t bump before tugging Arthie to her again.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Unsure of where to put her hands, Arthie holds onto the shoulders of Yolanda’s jacket, gripping the slippery material like a lifeline.

Before Yolanda, Arthie could have sworn she’d been kissed before.

Now she knows better.

This is greater than any dream.

Yolanda pulls away, wide-eyed. “Shit.”

“Whoa,” Arthie says, dazed.

Yolanda licks her thumb and slides it under Arthie’s bottom lip, cleaning up her smudged lipliner.

“No regrets?” She asks.

“That was _amazing_ ,” Arthie gushes. “I’d like to do it again.”

Yolanda laughs, cradling Arthie’s face like she’s a precious. “Sure.”

“Now?” Arthie asks, tugging on Yolanda’s sleeve. She’s savoring the taste of their kisses and she’s burning for more.

“Um,” Yolanda snorts, bumping her forehead against Arthie’s. “Can I pee first?”

Arthie giggles, loud and awkward.

“And maybe brush my teeth?”

“Oh god.”

Yolanda kisses her again, her fingers lingering on her jaw as if she’s reluctant to let go. Once the bathroom door slides shut, the world closes in.

Oh _god_. They just kissed. Yolanda _kissed_ her. She just kissed _Yolanda_.

And she really liked it.

It was amazing.

Oh _god_.

Oh god oh god oh god oh god.

Arthie frantically paces the length of their room in her socks and then jumps onto her bed, hugging her pillow.

There’s no oxygen left in the world and Arthie’s chest feels like it’s about to crumple like an empty soda can.

The bathroom door creaks open. Yolanda’s footsteps are soft shuffles as she comes to stand at the foot of Arthie’s bed.

“Oh, shit, you okay?”

Arthie shakes her head _no_.

Yolanda’s jacket makes a whispering sound as she shucks it off. The bed dips as Yolanda crawls in behind her. She’s wearing her luxurious perfume again, the scent familiar and comforting now.

Arthie takes a deep breath and rolls onto her other side.

“Hey,” Yolanda murmurs, the corner of her mouth ticking up in a lopsided grin.

“That was really intense,” Arthie states.

At Yolanda’s wide-eyed expression, Arthie is quick to clarify.

“Good intense.”

Yolanda glances down at the threadbare blanket. “It’s okay if it's not.”

“What?”

An icy chill washes over Arthie.

“If it’s too much,” Yolanda says, running her finger along a pulled stitch. “Or whatever. It’s okay if this isn’t what you want.”

Arthie, disoriented and needing a tether, fumbles for Yolanda’s hand. Yolanda’s expression is somewhere between startled amazement and open adoration as she holds Arthie’s hand and squeezes.

“What are you thinking?” Yolanda asks, bringing Arthie’s knuckles up to her lips so she can brush a kiss over them. It’s so light and feathery it tickles. Arthie’s chest buckles, goosebumps breaking out along her neck and shoulders.

“I’ve never felt like this,” Arthie answers hoarsely. She tugs Yolanda’s hand between her own and unfurls her fingers, flipping her hand over and stroking lightly along her palm. Yolanda scoots closer, worming her way along Arthie’s side.

“You've kissed before, right?” Yolanda murmurs, curling her fingertips in an attempt to reach Arthie’s hand.

“Yeah,” Arthie says. “But not like _that_.”

No kiss has ever made her come alive before.

Yolanda reaches over with her other hand to tuck some hair behind Arthie’s ear. Her fingers stay there, curled behind Arthie’s jaw, coaxing her to look into Yolanda’s eyes.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” Yolanda admits in a low, reverent voice. She bites her lip and laughs.

“Yeah?” Arthie asks, leaning into Yolanda’s touch. Moving on instinct, she brings Yolanda’s hand to her lips and kisses her palm. Her hand is soft, and the little gasp Yolanda makes has Arthie pressing a second, longer kiss right in the center. 

“Yeah,” Yolanda breathes, her voice thick. “I thought, _how could I be so lucky that this incredible girl lights up when I walk in a room_?”

Arthie giggles, light and giddy. She’s never been _desired_ like this before. Been someone’s first choice. Wanted someone and been wanted in return. Yolanda’s attention is too much, too intense. She doesn’t know the right expression to have. She lets go of Yolanda's hand and covers her face.

“Hey,” Yolanda says softly, reaching over and pulling her hands away. Her expression is tender, her eyebrows drawn and her lips slightly pressed in concern.

Intense—but good intense.

“How long did you like me?” Arthie asks. “How long did you… know?”

Yolanda chuckles, her eyes crinkling. They’re a deep, warm and dark brown with just a hint of mahogany, and are shining with adoration as she gazes at Arthie. “Since the ballet.”

 _Oh_. “That—that long?”

“I saw the way you were looking at me,” Yolanda admits, pulling back a bit. She bites her lip. “But if you didn't know... I didn't want to scare you.”

“I didn’t know what I was feeling,” Arthie confesses. “It was so much. I just needed to be near you.”

Yolanda chuckles, urging Arthie to sit up in bed. She scoots behind her.

“You’re so sweet,” she murmurs. “I love the way you look at me.”

Her voice vibrates into the bend where her neck meets her shoulder, her lips pressed hot against her skin. Arthie shudders. Something between her legs clenches.  

Yolanda’s laugh is joyous and sweet. She lays her hands on Arthie’s shoulders and presses her thumbs against her trapezius muscles.

“You hold a lot of tension here,” Yolanda says. “Relax, relax—I’ve got you.”

Arthie struggles not to fight against Yolanda’s insistent fingers as they dig into her muscles. It kind of hurts. Yolanda’s right. She’s tense. Always has been. Stooping over books for years didn’t help. Not knowing whether GLOW would continue for weeks was brutal. Fighting with her crush also didn't help.

After a few inhales and exhales, Yolanda’s massage starts to feel good.

Really good.

Yolanda _cackles_ when Arthie shivers and moans, the sound coming from deep in her belly without being able to stop it.

“You like that, do you?” Yolanda teases.

“Don’t stop,” Arthie pleads. Her whole body is tingling, from her scalp to her toes.

Yolanda digs her thumbs in harder, rolling them from the crest of her scapulae out towards her shoulders.

Arthie presses her fist against her mouth to keep from moaning again.

And just when it’s becoming too much, when Arthie feels like she’s going to melt through the bed, Yolanda stops. She lifts her hands and pulls Arthie’s ponytail off of her sweaty neck, twisting it and tugging her back gently.

“I’ll stop torturing you now,” she says, ghosting her lips over the now-sore spot on her back.

Arthie shudders and leans back, pressing against Yolanda’s shoulder and arm. Yolanda looks down at her and grins, scrunching up her nose. She’s just so _pretty_ , her smile wide and her eyes shining in delight.

“Can I kiss you again?” Arthie asks, breathless.

Yolanda’s eyes flash. “Uh. Yeah. That would be—yeah.”

Arthie brings one hand up to cup her cheek. She’s radiant, warm and soft, glowing tawny-gold in the lamplight.

Closing the distance between them, Arthie presses their lips together.

It’s like when they were rehearsing the dream ballet. There was the same push and pull, a wordless conversation. Now they’re moving against each other, each kiss growing more intimate as they create a rhythm. Yolanda is delicate and tender, her kisses luxurious as if she’s savoring them. They break with little _pops_ before beginning again.

Who knew kissing could be so sweet? For years, her mom warned her of forbidden kisses that demanded more. Kisses that would take parts of her she needed to protect.

Her friends gush about kisses that are steamy and rough, fun and inconsequential. Or a means to an end. Their stories don’t linger on kisses and Arthie wouldn’t want them to.

Movies make kisses out to be loud, clandestine gestures. Secret, sexy, stolen. A statement. A declaration.

Nobody told her kissing could make her feel _cherished_ , as Yolanda gently cradles her neck and jaw. Nobody told her she'd feel cared for, as Yolanda’s other arm supports her neck and shoulders. Nobody told her she'd feel _safe_ , as Yolanda pulls her closer, tethering her before she drifts away. She’s cradled in body heat and silky-soft skin, in opulent plum and spice and something rich and earthy underneath, and in a fluttering heartbeat that stutters through her lips and fingertips, ba- _dum_ , ba- _dum_ , ba- _dum_.

Yolanda is close and solid beside her, the warmth of her body soaking through wherever they touch. Arthie, now pliant and full of reverence, is becoming oversaturated with her kisses, as Yolanda lazily slots their lips together and kisses her once more. It’s almost too much, as the world closes in on her and she forgets how to breathe.

And then, their kisses change. They become feather light-pecks as Yolanda gently presses Arthie against the pillows. She settles beside her and presses another languid kiss to her lips.

It’s more intimate now, with Yolanda pressed along her side. This is… well. Making out with a _girl_ , in her _bed_.

If Arthie had any doubts, they’re gone now.

This is what she wants, with every cell of her being.

Absolutely.

Breathing is overrated.

Arthie curls one hand on Yolanda’s cheek, tucking her thumb in the warm divot behind her ear and laying her fingers on the back of her neck. She's adrift again. She needs more. Arthie tilts Yolanda's head so that she can deepen their kiss.

Opening her mouth ever-so-slightly, Arthie flicks her tongue against Yolanda's bottom lip. Yolanda trembles above her, parting her lips in return.

Yolanda’s tongue is slick; her mouth is hot and wet and a little minty. Arthie shudders as her entire body comes alive, tingling with electricity from her fingertips to her belly to the crooks of her elbows and between her legs. Needy, she pulls Yolanda to her, one hand tugging on the waistband of her pants, the other tangling in fine hairs on the nape of her neck.

How could she have not known, before? How much she wanted this?

Arthie’s actions prompt a breathy whine from Yolanda. The sound travels directly to Arthie’s groin, settling there. Yolanda is everywhere: her hand on Arthie’s cheek, her body hot and pressed close, and her perfume mesmerizing and heady in the air. Arthie is being held in the moment, suspended in awe and devotion with a supple tongue and sublime kisses.

Now Arthie understands the passion, white-hot and hungry.

Who knew kisses could make you feel naked, even when you're fully clothed?

She's ravenous for something she didn’t even know she’s been craving.

Does Arthie tug Yolanda down and to the left, or does she move on her own accord? First her kisses slide to the corner of Arthie’s mouth, then to the curve under her chin, tilting her head upward. Her lips are wet and soft, and they tug on something much deeper inside when Yolanda latches on and sucks softly.

“Oh,” Arthie gasps. “Oh, _oh_.”

Who knew someone’s lips on her skin could feel like _that_?

Yolanda scrapes her teeth against Arthie’s skin, then soothes her tongue over the spot.

“ _Yo-yo_ ,” Arthie gasps. She feels Yolanda’s teeth again and it pulls an almost-pained whine high from her throat that ends in a shudder. On instinct, Arthie tangles her hands in Yolanda’s hair, arching up into her.

Yolanda hisses and Arthie lets go. They stare at each other with wide, startled eyes.

“Sorry, um—” Arthie stutters, pulling her hands free.

“Wait,” Yolanda pleads, her voice raspy and strained. “I like that.”

“ _Oh_.”

Something inside Arthie sparks. Yolanda _likes_ that.

Heart pounding, Arthie reaches up to tangle her fingers in Yolanda’s hair again, working her fingers in gently until they’re close to her scalp. Like Yolanda did to her that night on the roof. Her hair is warm and springy and a little stiff from her product.

“Fuck,” Yolanda breathes, humid on Arthie’s neck. “ _Yes_.”

The rush of power is intoxicating. Arthie tugs on Yolanda’s hair and the raw, throaty sound it elicits sends a pulse of desire to her core.

Yolanda returns to her previous task, her finesse gone. Her lips and teeth on Arthie’s skin are passionate and almost painful. The firmer Arthie pulls on her hair, the more Yolanda writhes above her and the harder she sinks her teeth in into her flesh.

This is different than being liked. This is being _wanted_. This is Yolanda’s desire for her, stripped down and naked. _She’s_ the one making Yolanda squirm and moan. _She’s_ the target of Yolanda’s carnal attraction.

With a hiss, Arthie flexes her fingers and readjusts her grip so she can pull Yolanda’s hair even harder. With a shuddering whimper, Yolanda presses her face into the crook of Arthie’s shoulder. Her breath is hot and sticky as she pants against Arthie's neck.

Arthie is _powerful_. She grins, tugging just a little harder this time.

Yolanda moans in response, half in pleasure, half in pain. When did she bracket her legs around Arthie’s thigh like that? When she bucks her hips, Arthie sees stars.

“Fuck,” Yolanda pants, pulling up with a jerk and rolling onto the bed beside Arthie. She lands onto the mattress with a _thump_. “ _Jesus_.”

Oh _god_.

Arthie detangles her hands from Yolanda’s hair. They fall limply beside her. It’s sticky between her thighs.

“Yo-yo?” Arthie’s voice is small and distant, as if it’s coming from someone else.

“What just happened?” Yolanda croaks. She brushes her sweaty hair away from her face. “That was… whoa.”

It’s difficult to catch her breath. Arthie is winded, as if she’d just trained for hours.

The air between them smells sharp, like sweat and perfume.

“Is that—” Arthie asks, lost and adrift and overwhelmed. She curls onto her side. “Is that how it always is?”

Yolanda laughs hoarsely. She is staring straight ahead of her, a little cross-eyed, her nostrils flared and her chest heaving. “Are you kidding me? No, definitely not.”

At Arthie’s wide-eyed, teary expression, Yolanda softens. “Come here,” she says, scrambling for her head. “Feel my heart.”

Arthie can’t feel her pulse, but her skin is hot and slick with sweat. Her chest rises and falls with each deep breath. “Holy hell, Arthie.”

“So it was good?” Arthie asks, suddenly insecure. She pulls her hand away. “I was good?”

“ _Y_ _ou_  are amazing,” Yolanda admits. Her face and neck are _glowing_. “I could have kept going. I wanted to keep going. That's why we needed to stop. That's how good it was.”

Feeling brave and warm from the reassurance, Arthie slides close. She brushes her hair out of the way and lays her ear against Yolanda’s chest.

Yolanda laughs, the sound catching breathlessly in her throat.

“Smooth,” she rasps, brushing Arthie’s bangs behind her ear.

Arthie can hear her heartbeat now, staccato and pounding.

“Hmmm,” Arthie hums. She closes her eyes and presses her face against Yolanda’s sternum. It’s nice to be near her, like this. Intimate, in a way that’s close and caring and not uncomfortable like Arthie had always thought sharing a bed with someone would be. Yolanda is safe and warm and solid. It’s just… nice.

“That was really cool,” Yolanda murmurs, stroking the downy hairs by Arthie’s temple. Arthie shivers. No one’s ever done that before.

“Yeah,” Arthie agrees, fluttering her eyes open so she can look up at Yolanda, who’s staring at her with so much affection it makes her heart ache. “It was.”

Yolanda licks her lips. “I’d be down to do it again some time, if you are.”

“Sure,” Arthie shrugs, feigning nonchalance. She wants to see Yolanda smile. “I suppose I could be open to that.”

Yolanda laughs, tucking her fingers under Arthie’s jaw and wiping away her smudged lipstick. “Oh, you suppose?”

Arthie giggles, scooting up in the bed so she can press a kiss to Yolanda’s dimpled chin. “Mmhmm.”

Yolanda laughs again and tugs Arthie up for a real, albeit chaste one. “Well, maybe I can convince you.”

The next few weeks are going to be intense. There’s no guarantee GLOW will survive. And Arthie might be a med school drop out, a disappointment to her family and a female wrestler with a character she hates—but she’s also someone who can make Yolanda smile.

She can live with that.

And with Yolanda squeezing her and peppering delighted kisses along her face? She’s not some lost tumbleweed, going where the wind takes her. She’s safe and warm and desired, with room to grow into herself. Yolanda gives her something special and secret and _hers_ to look forward to.

“Thank you,” she says, because what else is there to say?

Yolanda chuckles, stroking Arthie’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “I adore you,” she breathes.

And in that moment? It’s exactly what Arthie needs to hear for the world to feel all right.


End file.
